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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24788356">I'm With The Band</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/volliglosgelost/pseuds/volliglosgelost'>volliglosgelost</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hetalia: Axis Powers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alf if you're reading this I'm so fucking sorry, Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Band Fic, Everyone Is Gay, Lots of it, M/M, Punk band, Rehab, Sex, and drug use, canada is a sweetheart, denmark is the lead singer in a pop band, england is a hot mess, francis is their manager bc why not, just basic band stuff, just read the goddamn fic, lovino is a princess, nordic family, norway is a mother hen, norway is the only sane person here, use of gay slurs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 10:01:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>30,946</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24788356</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/volliglosgelost/pseuds/volliglosgelost</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur, Lovino and Lukas are the three musicians that make up the punk-rock sensation Magical Bastards. Since meeting at university, they've carved a name for themselves in the music scene, alongside the Bad Touch, a rival pop band with annoyingly cute members. </p><p>But when Arthur lands himself in rehab after one drug dose too many, Lovino and Lukas have to find themselves a new interim frontman and get their manager off their backs, all whilst dealing with the Bad Touch. And when the truth about the bands are released to the paparazzi, they'll have to put aside their differences to find a way to rescue themselves and their reputations.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>America/England (Hetalia), Canada/France (Hetalia), Canada/Prussia (Hetalia), Denmark/Norway (Hetalia), Finland/Sweden (Hetalia), Germany/North Italy (Hetalia), Hong Kong/Iceland (Hetalia), Minor or Background Relationship(s), Norway/Sweden (Hetalia), South Italy/Spain (Hetalia)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>81</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Druggie, the Princess and the Norwegian</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>SPOTIFY PLAYLISTS FOR THE BANDS:</p><p>The Bad Touch: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0f3P4SiV8PMXEaeRkNkdid<br/>Magical Bastards: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3p61TycbVzVYjqCPxWKxT6</p><p>These are full of music that I think emulates the sounds of each of the bands!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Arthur, if you absolutely <em> have </em> to do cocaine before every show, could you possibly try and do it <em> away </em>from me?” Lukas Bondevik said, pulling a face and waving his hands at his English bandmate in an attempt to shoo him away. “That shit’s nasty, I’m not about it.”</p><p>“That’s because you’re a straight edge loser,” Arthur grumbled, but reluctantly did as he was told. He moved until his back was pressed up against Lukas’s legs, cutting and chopping the white powder with the side of his debit card. He ignored his friend’s petulant groan at being trapped on the sofa by Arthur’s bony back, instead choosing to roll up one of the abandoned five-dollar bills to better angle the said ‘nasty shit’ into his nostril. </p><p>“Drugged up bastard,” the third member of their trio muttered - that being Lovino Vargas, Italian playboy (if gay men could be classed as playboys in relation to their straight counterparts) and rich arsehole, who only loved one thing more than swearing - his voice. You would be hard-pressed to find Lovino drinking anything other than water, maybe Ribena on a particularly tough night. </p><p>The grump, the self-proclaimed ‘wild child’ that slept with anything that moved and spent all his salary on hard drugs and hookers, and Lukas Bondevik. The three members of ‘Magical Bastards’, the well-known and NME acclaimed punk rock band. All known for their proclivity to hate everyone, show nothing but disgust on their faces and spend most of their free time holed up in a house watching shitty horror films.</p><p>Lukas sighed heavily as Arthur finally got back to his feet, swaying a little. The man did not look good, he was exceptionally pale and his ribs were showing underneath his tight white t-shirt with the logo of their band emblazoned across it. Their lead guitarist had been showing signs of extreme fatigue recently, but no matter what Lukas tried to tell his best friend, there was no sign of Arthur stopping anytime soon.</p><p>Honestly, when Lukas had answered the call for a competent drummer on their university’s noticeboard on that rainy, muggy evening, he hadn’t expected much. He was halfway through a degree in biosciences, ready to come out with <em> summa cum laude </em>and a guaranteed spot in the research department of University Hospital. It had been more of a whim than an actual shot at fame and fortune.</p><p>He’d been with his brother at the time, who had just started studying psychology at the same university that year. After much cajoling and reassurement, Emil had agreed to meet his big brother every Wednesday lunchtime for food and a chat. That was the only time he let Lukas come anywhere near him on university property, and the elder brother liked to make the most of it. </p><p>They had been sat on their usual bench in the quadrangle, brutalist concrete architecture, Lukas chewing on a coronation chicken sandwich whilst Emil munched through a bento box his boyfriend Leon had made for him when Emil brought it up. “You play the drums, right?”</p><p>That was a stupid question. Of course, Lukas played the drums. His kit was the one thing he had left from their parents before the accident, and he cherished it almost as much as he did his lunchtime sandwiches. It was a thing of beauty, well worn in the middle of the cymbals, and Lukas still liked to play it every night before bed. So it wasn’t like Emil <em> hadn’t </em>heard his brother play it before, and yet he was still being facetious. </p><p>Lukas didn’t rise to the bait. “Yes,” he answered simply, taking another bite of the sandwich. There was something about the creamy filling in the bread blanket that he just loved so much, the slightly sweet and salty taste and the fluffiness of the loaf he freshly baked that morning. <em> Sandwiches, </em> he decided, swallowing the mouthful. <em> Were created by Odin himself </em>.</p><p>“There’s a notice,” Emil continued, chewing on his piece of sushi. “On the noticeboard. There’s a band - the Magical Bastards? Say they want a drummer. Someone to round out their sound a bit.”</p><p>Lukas rolled his eyes. Drummers didn’t round out the sound, they provided accompaniment and crunchy beats. In his opinion, his drumming was just that. Drumming. Nothing special, he liked to play on his own and he had certainly never tried out for a band before. He didn’t like people (apart from Emil) and he didn’t like people who told him what to do. </p><p>“You should try,” Emil added as if he could hear Lukas’s thoughts. “It’s not like anyone’s heard of the band before. And that weird British kid runs it - you know, Arthur Kirkland? Likes to dress in vests and death metal t-shirts, black nail polish, horrific eyebrows?”</p><p><em> Ah, yes </em>. Lukas knew Arthur alright. Medical student, his year. Average height, obviously gay, liked to hang around with that horrific Francis kid. The pair were obviously an on and off thing, as one week they’d be sticking their tongues down each other’s throats in public and the next they’d be yelling at each other over bacon rolls. </p><p>But, if you ignored the perverted boyfriend, Arthur was alright. Friendly enough, he supposed. Lukas had a similar fashion style, although he secretly fancied himself more of a mod, with his long wavy blond hair and tight blue jeans. He wouldn’t mind pulling out a couple of black Megadeath t-shirts from the back of his wardrobe for a change, and he had been looking for something to do on his weekends that wasn’t sitting and watching reruns of <em> Friends </em>…</p><p>And that was how Lukas had found himself in the university music room the following evening, dressed all in black, his jumper pulled off to expose the neatly inked tattoos on his forearms. He kept them hidden, most of the time because he didn’t like the questions he got about them.</p><p><em> Why a rose in black ink? </em> Because my mother died in a car accident three years ago. <em> Why a lily in black ink? </em> Because my father died alongside her. <em> Why a puffin </em>? That symbolised Emil, chosen for his long-suffering puffin toy. </p><p>Hopefully, Arthur wouldn’t ask too many questions about his forearms. It had been a long day - his butt had been grabbed in his new tight black jeans a few too many times for comfort, and nobody said that bioscience was an easy degree to do. It was fucking <em> hard </em>. And all Lukas wanted was coffee and bed and Ross and Rachel. </p><p>He didn’t know who to expect for the other member of the band, and he was very surprised to see that it was Lovino Vargas. <em> Varg-ass </em> , Lukas corrected in his mind, with a smirk. Not the most forthcoming of people - in fact, he made Lukas look positively welcoming. Rich, spoilt and very very pretty, Lovino knew he was worth a million dollars and he always made sure he looked like it. Prade shoes, Gucci earrings, his top was just a plain black but even <em> that </em>looked designer. </p><p>“Welcome to Magical Bastards,” Arthur began, in a bored voice. He, along with Vargass, was sitting behind a desk procured from one of the tutorial rooms. The Englishman tapped his nails on the wooden tabletop, looking like he would rather be anywhere but there. </p><p>
  <em> That makes two of us, buddy. </em>
</p><p>“What’s your name?” Lovino asked, looking at Lukas with a stoic expression. It took a second or two for Lukas to find his words again - he’d been thinking too much about the coffee grinder waiting for him at home. </p><p>“Lukas Bondevik,” Arthur nodded, jotting it down on a piece of lined paper, torn out from a notebook. “I study biosciences.”</p><p>“I’ve seen you in my lectures,” Arthur said here, finally looking a little less bored. “I wasn’t aware you were a musician.”</p><p>Lukas snorted. “Drummers aren’t musicians,” he insisted, ignoring Lovino’s scowl. That man was not easily pleased. “I just play for fun.”</p><p>Arthur nodded - again. He didn’t speak a whole lot either evidently. “Show us what you’ve got, then, Lukas.”</p><p>Lukas didn’t bother to return to nod, instead setting his satchel down on the ground and unzipping it. He pulled his sticks out from the back, where they were nestled behind his work folder, and went over to sit down at the kit the music room provided.</p><p>It was nothing like his beloved drum kit at home, everything was shiny and new with no sign of wear or tear. And - yes, as Lukas tapped the drum skin lightly with the top of one of the sticks, it barely vibrated at all. He would have to really bash it to get a decent sound out of this thing.</p><p>He was very aware of the two gazes fixed on him whilst he made himself comfortable, but Lukas forced himself not to rush the process. He liked his ass to be comfy whilst he played, otherwise he would have a numb bum by the end of his set. He normally sat on a cushion or something atop of the stool - if this was going to work out long-term he would have to bring one in. </p><p>Lukas finally got himself settled, before grabbing his sticks and beginning to tap out a basic rhythm. Just a basic 4/4 time signature, perfect for any kind of song that the other guys would want to play - he wasn’t entirely sure what genre this band came under anyway. </p><p>“No! NO!” Arthur cut in quickly, interjecting Lukas’s thoughts. The Englishman had got to his feet, glowering at the Norwegian boy. “Something more metal, y’get me? Not just basic shite like that.”</p><p>Lukas blinked. He really <em> did not </em>like being told what to do, especially by grumpy Englishmen with shite eyebrows and messy hair. And - he noted, with a mental roll of the eyes - his nail polish was beginning to chip away, too. </p><p><em> No, Lukas, you’re not here to start a fight </em>. Lukas took a deep breath, but eventually nodded, settling himself back down again.</p><p>This time, he tore into the kit, smashing down on the drums like nobody else would ever need to use it again and he could wreck it if he wanted to. Not even Lukas was sure of his plan, but he managed to find a faster, heavier rhythm and stuck to it, changing it up every now and again to stop his arms falling asleep. Once he was in a groove he could stay in it for ages, once even managing to stay up to an hour in the same position just from muscle retention and habit.</p><p>Despite himself, Lukas wanted to impress Arthur and Lovino, so he decided to pull out his magnum opus. Tossing his sticks up in the air, he pulled on five years of previous gymnastic training and just about managed an unbalanced front flip over the kit (although he did catch his pinkie on the left cymbal). The Norwegian stretched up to full height again, before reaching back over the top drums to grab the falling sticks in one hand - one, then two. </p><p>It took a second or two for Lukas to get his breath back, but when he did, he noticed that Arthur and Lovino were both nodding appreciatively. “Congrats,” Lovino said, in his distinctive Italian accent. “You’re in the band.”</p><p>That had been three years ago, and Arthur’s demanding band practice schedule had meant that Lukas’s <em> summa cum laude </em>quickly dropped from his grasp. He no longer needed to look at graduate jobs, or worry about working to get Emil through the rest of college. Arthur was convinced that Magical Bastards would make it big, and through some fluke, it happened. </p><p>After a series of gigs in local London bars around the city, going wherever someone would take them, they had been lucky enough to come across an agent from Hetalia Corporations, who wanted to sign a punk band to detract from their squeaky clean image. Their main money bringer was the pop group Bad Touch, but the agent had been sent out to find something new and fresh for the label’s catalogue. </p><p>Apparently, Magical Bastards seemed to fit that bill. And suddenly, Arthur had a regular paycheck to buy his drugs with, Lovino could buy all the designer gear he needed, and Lukas invested in a proper French coffee press. </p><p>Emil was happily living in Hong Kong with Leon, so Lukas felt like he had a right to let his hair down a little and enjoy the rest of his youth. But, despite being a world-famous drummer, he was mostly a gateway to his bandmates rather than an actual catch himself. Everyone preferred Arthur because he was hot, and Lovino was cute. Lukas was just… there. Part of the scenery. </p><p>Arthur staggered somewhat, and Lukas got to his feet to hold his best friend up. “You okay?” he asked worriedly, hooking an arm under Arthur’s armpits. “Look, we’re supposed to be on in ten minutes, will you be okay by then?”</p><p>Arthur nodded frantically, pupils incredibly dilated. Lukas swore to himself, before gently setting his frontman down on the sofa he had just vacated. He fixed Arthur with a glass of water and strict instructions to ‘drink up or I’ll hurt you’, and walked over to Lovino.</p><p>“He’s in a bad way,” Lukas said, in a low voice, watching as the Italian glanced over at the prone Englishman. “Lov- I’m not sure if he’s good to go on tonight.”</p><p>For once, Lovino didn’t put up a fight. He just nodded, looking as concerned as Lukas felt. “We need to call someone,” Lovino insisted, pulling his mobile out of his suit pocket (of course, only Lovino would want to wear a suit as the lead singer of a punk band). “Um… Any ideas?”</p><p>Lukas just shrugged, wracking his brain for ideas. He pulled his own phone out, scrolling through his meagre list of contacts. <em> Emil, Leon, Francis, Lovino, Arthur… </em>Five people and one of them was his brother. Maybe he did need to find friends outside of Magical Bastards. </p><p>“I don’t want to call Francis,” Francis was their manager, which was incredibly awkward when the frontman of the band he managed was also his ex-boyfriend. The pair had been broken up since the day of graduation, and Arthur had adamantly refused to get back together with the man, saying that he ‘was done with frogs and perverts’. </p><p>Lovino nodded in agreement, as his thumb kept scrolling. <em> Of course, even <strong>Lovino </strong> has more friends than me... </em></p><p>“We can say it’s a family emergency,” Lovino said, after a moment of further scrolling. “We’ll say… We’ll say that Arthur’s brother is in the hospital!”</p><p>“Allister?” Lukas scoffed. “The man is as healthy as an ox, we’d need to make sure the paps stay <em> away </em>from Scotland for the next few weeks.”</p><p>Lovino looked like he was about to either punch the wall or cry - knowing the Italian, most likely the former. “<em> Fototto bastardo </em> ,” he muttered, looking down at the floor. “Arthur, you <em> stupido drogato </em>…”</p><p>Lukas was honestly not entirely sure what Lovino was saying, only being able to speak Norwegian and English, but he was 99% sure that it was swearing. “We’ll sort it,” he said quietly but didn’t trust the words he was saying. Arthur was silent, still lying on the sofa staring up at the ceiling. </p><p>“I’ll be fine,” the Englishmen said suddenly, not looking over at his bandmates. “Just give me five minutes.”</p><p>Lukas checked his watch. “We’ve got three,” he sighed, walking back over to the sofa. He slapped Arthur around the face. </p><p>“OW!” Arthur scowled, rubbing his cheek. “Fucking HELL LUKAS!”</p><p>
  <em> Yup, Arthur was back. High, but back. </em>
</p><p>Lukas sat back on his calves, regarding Arthur Kirkland with satisfaction. The frontman’s eyes were still incredibly dilated, but he at least looked with it enough to fool their fans. </p><p>The noise from outside was getting louder and louder now, with the steady chanting of ‘MAG-I-CAL BAS-TARDS’ signalling that it was nearing their time to go on stage. With a nod to the stage manager, their intro music (a punk-style instrumental of <em> Smells Like Teen Spirit </em>, performed by Arthur and Lukas) began to blast. </p><p>“Ready?” Lukas asked, getting to his feet and offering Arthur a hand. For a second, he didn’t think Arthur was going to take it, but then he did. The Englishman’s arm muscles tensed as he was pulled to his feet. </p><p>“As I’ll ever be,” Lovino chimed in from the doorway, hovering halfway between their dressing room and the stage. He smirked, looking Arthur up and down, and nodded. “Magical Bastards?”</p><p>“Magical Bastards,” Lukas and Arthur agreed, the latter grabbing his Fender Stratocaster and swinging it over his shoulders. Then the trio marched out into the open air, with Lovino leading the way. </p><p>“HELLO COPENHAGEN! ARE YOU READY TO ROCK WITH <em> I BASTARDI? </em>”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Bad Touch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for all the kudos, comments and support!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It was past midnight when the Magical Bastards finally stepped off stage, all of them coated in thick sheens of sweat. Lukas could feel his fingers cramping from where he’d clutched his sticks for dear life (the sticks themselves lost to the crowd for some poor fangirl to collect), and Arthur was flexing the palms of his hands in and out in a strange fixation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lovino strutted past the pair of them, stretching his arms above his head and reaching for a glass of water. Their rider was always very specific: bottled water, 2 litres, for Lovino; a Jack and Coke for Arthur; and Lukas, a pale ale. Food wasn’t requested, they would always find something to eat at 3am when they crawled out from whatever post-show bar they’d managed to discover.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight, Lukas was craving a pizza. They’d had amazing pizza when they played New York, opening for Hole, and although he knew that nothing would ever compare to that delicious cheesy slice of melted goodness, he was still searching for a European counterpart. Was Copenhagen known for its pizza? He wasn’t entirely sure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas downed half his beer in one gulp, before tipping a little into his hand and rubbing it on his sweaty forehead. Yes, he’d smell like stale booze in a while, but he wasn’t going to pass up the chance to cool down before he managed to jump in the shower later. Then he collapsed, ass first, into the sofa, narrowly avoiding Arthur’s prone body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is this?” Arthur asked, stretching his arms up to the ceiling and staring at his hands. “Are we real? Are any of us real? Are we just living in a simulation?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lovino scoffed, sipping carefully from his water. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Bastardo</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he muttered, his voice coming out cracked and parched. He had just been singing for three hours straight, after all. “Time to sober up now, </span>
  <em>
    <span>idioto.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas smirked, taking a sip of his cider and wetting his lips with it. Finally, he could properly relax. They’d managed to get Arthur through the performance without alerting anyone to the fact that he was drunk, high and disorderly, and Lukas was still running on the pure adrenaline that he got from being up on stage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d honestly never expected his band to get so big, but it was happening. They’d played an open-air concert to over 5,000 tonight, and they had a line-up of interviews and meetings for the following week. Lukas was hoping to catch a flight back home on Wednesday to Norway to sleep in his own bed, but it would be a nighttime dinner and dash deal. Such were the perils of being famous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And could he really ask for more? Emil was happy, attending graduate school in Hong Kong and living with Leon. The pair were engaged, and Lukas could send money to his little brother whenever he needed to. He was the epitome of privilege; rich, successful and talented, with a relatively low-pressure job. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Leave him to it,” Lukas said dismissively, pushing his hair away from his face. His cross hairpin - which he always took off for performances - was on a table just out of his reach, and Lukas didn’t much fancy moving right now. Moving was for people that hadn’t just spent the last few hours on stage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur had fallen asleep somewhat now, with drool escaping from one corner of his mouth. Lukas smirked, rolling his eyes and leaning back on his legs, staring up at the ceiling for a second or two, before coming back to reality. Normality, if you could call his life ‘normal’. Which it most definitely wasn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ohonhon- brilliant show, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mes amies</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh god, - </span>
  <em>
    <span>Francis. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Their perverted, disgusting manager, Arthur’s ex-boyfriend from their university days, who somehow managed to find out the label the band were signed to and wrangled his way into a job at the company. Lukas swore that it was intentional, but when confronted, all Francis would insist that it was a complete fluke and that they had just been looking for a new manager, and he fit the bill. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it wasn’t as if they’d specifically asked for Francis to become </span>
  <em>
    <span>their </span>
  </em>
  <span>manager either, it was just an evil twist of fate. Disgustingly ill-fated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas just ignored the Frenchman, smirking as Lovino gave him a glare. It was the Italian’s job to cope with the weirdo tonight, and Lukas had a very useful skill of ignoring people and blocking out their voices. That had come from his years of interviews and recording booths, people asking him weird invading questions and assuming he was extroverted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Norwegian was the opposite. He liked his own company, or the company of Lovino and Arthur exclusively. Emil was the only person he actively didn’t hate outside the band, the rest of the world was annoying. And Francis was the worst person Lukas had ever had the misfortune to meet, let alone work with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Lovino said, simply, trying to cut off any chance at further conversation with the Frenchman. Francis was not deterred, however, and ploughed on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Bonjour</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Lukas?” Francis waved a perfectly-manicured hand in front of the Norwegian’s face but got no response. Lukas looked back up to the ceiling again, praying to every Norse god ever that the Frenchman would just ‘ohonhon-fuck off’. He wanted to drink his cider with Lovino and a now-snoring Arthur, not be bothered by people from every country in the world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis sniffed when he realised he wasn’t getting a response from ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>mon cher</span>
  </em>
  <span> Lukie’, and moved onto the final member of Magical Bastards. Arthur’s mouth was now wide open, his tongue lolling slightly, but he was breathing loudly and normally, suggesting that his drug dose hadn’t quite killed him this time around. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ma cherie</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” why Francis used the feminine form to refer to his ex, Lukas had no idea, and he certainly didn’t want to find out the cause. “Awww, he’s sleeping.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Lukas also wasn’t going to tell Francis </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>Arthur was so exhausted. As far as he was aware, Francis didn’t know that Arthur had - ah - a </span>
  <em>
    <span>slight </span>
  </em>
  <span>issue with drugs and drinking (specifically bad English beer). And cross fingers, he would never have to know. Lukas knew that Francis would go apeshit if his little Artie was incapacitated in any way at all, let alone in rehab. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aww, Artie,” Francis cooed, leaning in close and placing his mouth over the Englishman’s nose, and sucking in sharply. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur’s eyes shot open, and he yelled, frantically struggling away from Francis and propelling himself to the other side of the room as fast as he could. “WHAT THE FUCK, FRANCIS!” he yelped, looking around frantically. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thank god, his pupils weren’t so dilated anymore. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“THAT’S DISGUSTING!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis burst into laughter, wiping a few tears away from the corners of his eyes. “Ah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ma cherie</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he smirked. “You never used to respond to that so… violently…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas pulled a face, choosing this moment to finally use his words, against his better judgement. “What do you want?” he asked, voice icy. Needless to say, he had a low tolerance for people most of the time, but he was especially tired at this moment in time. “Make it fast.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have some people who want to meet you!” Francis replied cheerfully, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Lukas inwardly groaned. “VIPs! They’ve got proper backstage passes and </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lovino pulled a face. “Do we have to say yes?” he rolled his eyes, stretching his arms up above his head again. “Are they fans? We said no autographs tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And no VIP packages,” Arthur pointed out, crossing his arms. “Aren’t we even allowed five minutes peace, Frog?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Important fans!” Francis insisted, walking back over to the door that led outside - and to their hotel, a bed, and a hot shower. That was sounding better and better to Lukas now, especially as the sweat on him was beginning to look less attractive and more sticky. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Lukas sensed that Lovino was too self-obsessed to care about anything other than himself right now, and Arthur was still coming down off his high. So, he got to his feet wearily, picking up his hairpin and fixing it back into his slightly sticky blond locks. “Not tonight, Francis. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nei</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis pouted, bouncing towards the Norwegian and putting his hands on his shoulders. “I am your manager,” he said, in an annoying whiny tone. “You don’t get to tell </span>
  <em>
    <span>me </span>
  </em>
  <span>what to do!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Actually, we can fire you, frog bastard,” Lovino pointed out. “Fuck off, Frenchy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis opened his mouth to reply to that thinly veiled threat but was interrupted by the door opening again. Lukas turned to it, ready to rebuff whoever had just walked in, but found that his words wouldn’t come out.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck, he was hot.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Tall, blonde messy hair, with a really nicely sculpted face and piercingly happy blue eyes to match Lukas’s own icy ones. And his arms, those were some fucking nice arms. Obviously whoever they belonged to worked out a lot, and his chest almost certainly looked similarly buff. Lukas couldn’t see much beneath the tight white shirt the man was wearing, but he was definitely hot, that was for damn sure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He really fucking hoped that neither the man nor Francis saw that he was staring. Lukas wasn’t exactly open about his sexuality, and although Francis obviously wouldn’t have an issue, he didn’t want to start a conversation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily, he managed to snap back to something that resembled reality before it became painfully obvious that he was imagining the muscly man in his bed. “Get out,” he snapped, glaring at the newcomer. “Band members and pesky managers </span>
  <em>
    <span>only.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man gave Francis a look, who just shrugged. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Mon cher </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lukas is a little… </span>
  <em>
    <span>Frustrated.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now Lukas was actually going to slap their manager. He willed himself not to blush at the thinly veiled innuendo in Francis’s words and shook his head. “Tired,” he correct, making arm motions as if to usher the hot man out of the room and, sadly, away from Lukas. “Get out. We’re… We’re having an important band meeting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stranger didn’t seem massively bothered with this statement, and just grinned. “You must be Lukas Bondevik,” he said cheerfully, with an accent Lukas raised his eyebrows at. A fellow Scandinavian - most likely from Sweden or Denmark by the intonation. “You’re cuter than you are on the posters!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now Lukas was blushing, goddammit. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Cute</span>
  </em>
  <span>? The last person to call him cute was his ex/one-time-fling, Berwald, a Swedish guy who was now happily married to a Fin. They invited Lukas over for dinner whenever the Norwegian was in the area, but it only ever just ended up making Lukas feel like he was never going to find someone who was on the same page as him when it came to relationships.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And his emotions were obviously showing on his face because the Scandinavian man was reaching out a hand to shake Lukas’s, smirking as he did so. “Mathias Køhler!” he beamed, gripping Lukas’s hand and shaking it up and down enthusiastically. “I’ve heard all about you from Francis!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He placed the name, and immediately pulled his arm away from the intruder, pulling a face. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No, no, no - not them. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But Francis was smirking at the Norwegian, and Lukas wanted to punch a fucking wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>bloody hell </span>
  </em>
  <span>no,” Arthur scowled, walking up to Lukas’s side. “Oi! You! Dane, get the fuck out! We only deal with people in </span>
  <em>
    <span>proper </span>
  </em>
  <span>bands, thank you very much!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mathias looked hurt for a split second, before turning behind him. “Listen to this, lads!” he grinned back at Arthur and Lukas for a moment (Lovino was, presumably, holding back his rage from his chair). “Arthur Kirkland doesn’t think we’re a </span>
  <em>
    <span>proper band</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas was going to punch a wall, or Mathias’s face, or maybe Francis’s balls. This was getting out of control now, they certainly didn’t want all five members of The Bad Touch in their </span>
  <em>
    <span>private </span>
  </em>
  <span>dressing room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mathias Køhler. Well, at least Lukas had a reason for finding the idiot hot - every person of every gender from here to Antarctica had fantasised about the Dane at least once (unless they were asexual, but Lukas didn’t want to worry about that right now when he had more pressing matters to cope with). It most definitely wasn’t just him and the man was most definitely not gay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then you had Alfred Jones. Possibly the worst person on the planet, and Lukas’s rival for the best drummer in the Western hemisphere. American, boisterous, and the person Arthur wanked to more than any other (although Lukas wasn’t about to betray his best friend’s trust by telling the guy that).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lovino growled, and sprang to his feet, marching over to the door where the band were congregating. “Get out of here, tomato bastard!” he spat at Antonio Carriedo, who was the bassist of their little four-way. Lukas had no idea what had happened there, but the pair had a history, and the Spaniard just grinned at the angry Italian man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Awww, don’t be so mean Lovi,” Antonio smirked. “That wasn’t what you were saying last night…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas choked, glancing over at Lovino, who looked like he was about the skewer the Spanish man with a kebab stick, roast him over a fire and serve him up in a kebab. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>slept </span>
  </em>
  <span>with him?” Arthur looked as disgusted as Lukas felt. “Get yourself tested, stat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yes, finally, Gilbert Beilschmidt, who was, unfortunately, more familiar to the Magical Bastards. Nobody really forgot a guitar-shredding albino very quickly, and Lukas had come all too close to almost going home with the German a few times before. Those had always been dodgy nights.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are they here?” Lukas asked, tone almost bored. He wasn’t in a mood to deal with anyone, let alone four members of a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>boy band</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Because that’s what the Bad Touch was, a fucking boy band. The Magical Bastards had legitimate talent, whilst the Bad Touch was formed on the American X-Factor and brought to stardom through the TV rather than dumb luck and blind expertise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To say hello!” Francis snickered at the expression on their faces. “Awww, </span>
  <em>
    <span>garçons</span>
  </em>
  <span>, don’t look so blue! They’re your labelmates, after all!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Arthur cut in here, shaking his head quickly. “We just want to go back to our hotel, to bed, away from here…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas nodded in agreement, copied by Lovino. “Yes,” the Italian spoke faster than the other two men, a tell-tale sign that he was getting angrier by the second. “I’m not about this shit, I’ve got to rest up for our interview tomorrow, goddammit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Us too!” Mathias said brightly, looking more like a puppy with each passing moment. Gilbert nodded behind him, baring his teeth slightly. Lukas looked at the German pityingly. “We’re doing the interview with you tomorrow!”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh - </span>
    <strong>fuck</strong>
    <span> no.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s it!” Arthur exploded, thick eyebrows furrowed and expression furious. “Francis - I quit! If you force us to work with these </span>
  <em>
    <span>idiots </span>
  </em>
  <span>then </span>
  <em>
    <span>I quit</span>
  </em>
  <span>! I’ll go solo, you know I fucking will - I’ve threatened it before, and I’m not joking this time bitch!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Arthur,” Lukas said quietly, laying a calming hand on his best friend’s shoulder. “Calm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t fucking calm down!” Arthur spat, marching up to Francis. “Francis - tell me that this is all a gigantic </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking </span>
  </em>
  <span>joke right now!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Francis looked far too pleased with himself. “It’s true.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going for a drink,” Lukas said quietly, walking over to the table where his jacket was abandoned. “Coming, Arthur, Lovino?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other two members of the band looked at each other for a split second before nodding. “Get me the fuck out of here,” Lovino muttered, shooting the Spaniard a dark glare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That went well!” The German, Gilbert, said sarcastically, looking sideways at Francis. “You’re a right </span>
  <em>
    <span>dummkopf</span>
  </em>
  <span> Francis, you know that? Did you expect them to take it well?”</span>
  <span>Francis just smirked to himself and shook his head. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Non</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but it will certainly be </span>
  <em>
    <span>interessant</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Translations are all done by moi (I know enough French to get by and I'm bilingual in English and German so they're hopefully correct)!</p><p>I'm a bit of a language nerd so expect to see my knowledge of Norwegian swears used at some point in the future ;) REIS TIL HELVETE!</p><p>"Mes amies" - plural form, 'my friends' (French)<br/>"Mon cher" - male form, 'my dear' (French)<br/>"Ma cherie" - female form, 'my dear' (French)<br/>"Nej" - 'no' (Norwegian)<br/>"Dummkopf" - lit. translation 'stupid head' but used as an insult to mean a stupid person (German)<br/>"Interessant" - 'interesting' (French)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Bar</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Magical Bastards hit a local bar. Drunken shenanigans ensue.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry there isn't much Lovino/Antonio in this chapter - that's all to come! Also lots of USUK next chapter (the interview)!</p><p>Thanks for all the love guys x</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“That bloody GIT!” Arthur yelled across the bar table, making Lukas raise an eyebrow. For someone that liked his privacy, Arthur Kirkland was certainly a yeller whilst drunk (and probably also in bed, but Lukas had yet to experience that). “How DARE Francis do that to us without consulting us first?”</p><p>Lukas just shrugged. The alcohol he had consumed was considerably less than the Englishman or the Italian, but he was still pleasantly buzzed by the pints of Danish beer he’d been sipping at since 1am. </p><p>The trio had made it to the nearest possible pub, which of course just happened to be a gay bar, in record time after being rudely barged in on by Francis and The Bad Touch. Lovino had, reluctantly, swapped his water for a vodka lemonade, under the plea that it be more lemonade than spirit. Somehow that instruction was doubtful, judging by the Italian’s complete drunkenness.</p><p>“Yes!” he said, more cheerfully than usual, raising his glass into the air. Arthur copied the motion, wobbling slightly in his chair. “Down with The Bad Touch! <em> Giù giù giù </em>!”</p><p>“<em> Faen av </em> ,” Lukas muttered, torn between crossing his arms and taking another gulp of the ale. He decided upon the latter. If he was going to make it through the <em> joint interview </em>(even the words made him sick) tomorrow, then he would need a lot of alcohol in him, and maybe not even stop drinking until it was firmly over and done with. He was more concerned with the fact that he found Mathias Køhler hot than the interview itself because no punk drummer wanted to be confronted with his own taste in hot indie singers. </p><p>Lovino didn’t hold his drink well, obviously. Years of abstaining from anything over 1% alcohol volume didn’t really lend itself to a strong stomach. The Italian looked like he was about to vomit. Lukas and Arthur, on the other hand, were both more than accustomed to drinking enough to make a donkey pass out. </p><p>“Oi! Git!” Arthur liked to call everyone ‘git’ when he was drunk, but if it was an insult or a term of endearment - Lukas wasn’t sure. “What’s this about you sleeping with the enemy, eh?”</p><p>Lukas snorted at Lovino’s tomato-red face. “Yes, <em> Lovi </em>,” he smirked, idly spinning the golden liquid around in his beer glass. “And this is the first time you’ve been drunk in years - so don’t give us any of that ‘I was drinking too much’ shit.”</p><p>Lovino avoided the gazes of his bandmates, putting a hand over his mouth. “<em> Mi scusi </em> , threw up in my mouth a little,” he muttered, swallowing down his bile. “It was a <em> sbaglio </em> ! <em> Odio quel bastardo spagnolo </em>!”</p><p>“We don’t understand you! Speak the queen’s ENGLISH!” Arthur slammed his glass back onto the tabletop. “That’s our common language! None of this- <em>Italiano</em> <em>schieße</em>!”</p><p>“That’s German,” Lukas pointed out quickly, ignoring Arthur’s sharp glare. “We’re in Denmark, anyway, surely we should be speaking that?”</p><p>“Bloody Danish,” Arthur muttered, glowering down at his shoes. “I don’t understand you Scandinavians and your mad languages, at least English MAKES SENSE!” he slammed his glass down on the table again. The group were starting to get a few odd looks now, but Lukas assumed that Denmark was used to drunks often enough. Maybe just not grumpy English drunks.</p><p>Of course, this night wasn’t even half as bad as the time Arthur stole a whole bottle of vodka from a Wetherspoons in London and summarily got the three of them banned from all the chain establishments, but that was a story for another day. And Arthur had been sorry enough the morning after when he was expected to model for Armani with a massive hangover.</p><p>“Carriedo,” Lukas said, attempting to bring the conversation back to the most important topic of the day - why and how their little lead singer had decided to sleep with Antonio Carriedo. “Lovino, <em> perché </em>?”</p><p>“Don’t you use my language at me, bastard!” Lovino cackled, leaning back in his seat and almost tipping himself over. “What can I say, the man has… Ah, <em> un grosso cazzo </em>.”</p><p>“Do we want to know what that means?” Lukas asked, quirking an eyebrow and pulling a disgusted-looking face. He was far too tipsy to put two and two together at this stage. “No - no I don’t, Lovino, and if you tell me what it means I will destroy your tomato plants.”</p><p>“You wouldn’t!” Lovino gasped, springing forward again and holding a hand over his heart. “Lukas, you bitch, you wouldn’t!”</p><p>“I would.”</p><p>“He would,” Arthur seconded sagely. “You know about the time he put diuretics in my scones, don’t you?”</p><p>Lukas just smiled blithely and got to his feet, brushing down the front of his jeans with two slightly clammy palms. “I’m going to get another beer,” he said. “Either of you fancy anything?”</p><p>Lovino seemed to ponder that question for a moment, before looking up. “Another of these?” he asked quickly, glancing around to make sure nobody had overheard the great Lovino Vargas asking for another vodka. “More lemonade than vodka, <em> per favore </em>.”</p><p>Lukas rolled his eyes and nodded. There was no way he was going to relay that to the barman in his already stilted Danish. If only everyone in the Nordic countries just spoke Norwegian, that would be so much easier. It sounded the nicest, after all - Danish was the language of drunks, Swedish sounded crazy and Finnish was barely a language, more a collection of badly put-together sounds. </p><p>“Ask the barkeep for some Budweiser!” Arthur said triumphantly, nodding along to his statement. “Yes, one of your finest Budweisers barkeep, <em> s’il vous plait </em>!”</p><p>“Fucking hell,” this time Lukas swore in English as he walked away, knowing far too well that swears in Norway and Denmark were all too similar. He didn’t much want to be called out by an over-zealous patron tonight, especially whilst he could feel his morals slipping away from him with every passing moment. Hopefully, he wouldn’t end up grinding against a stranger on the dancefloor, but worse things have happened. </p><p>He passed the bartender some crisp Danish kroner bills, murmuring his order and giving the little man behind the bar a small, but kind smile. No doubt the tiny blond guy had to deal with his fair share of unruly customers (read: Arthur) over the night, especially since the Magical Bastards had been playing. Lukas scanned the man’s name card and nodded.</p><p>“Keep the change, Timo,” he smiled again, relaxing somewhat at Timo’s grateful expression. </p><p>He left the man to his job and turned his focus back to the bar, looking around. Apart from the booths, this particular establishment seemed to have a focus on the stripping aspect of gay nightlife, complete with the money stuffed into tight underwear. Needless to say, that was not Lukas’s cup of tea, despite how many times Arthur had drunkenly told the Norwegian to get up on a stage and pull his clothes off.</p><p>If Lukas ever had to become a stripper, that’s when he would know that his life was over and he needed to cut his losses and move to Greenland.</p><p>“Gimme a stiff one, Timo,” an unpleasantly familiar voice said, from behind Lukas’s back, startling the Norwegian from his thoughts. <em> This was just fate’s way of saying that he shouldn’t have stolen those biscuits from the corner shop when he was seven </em>. “It’s been a hard night.”</p><p>“Give me a break, Mat,” Timo, the tiny bartender, scoffed, as Lukas turned back to the bar. “I’ve got other customers to serve, you know.”</p><p>“Awwww, Timo,” Mathias whined slightly, before smirking over at the smaller boy. “That’s no way to treat your brother-in-law!”</p><p><em> Of-fuckin-course </em>Mathias Køhler was related to the bartender Lukas was trying to be nice to. Was everyone in this godforsaken country related? Maybe they all attended gangbangs on the weekends and got their kicks that way. </p><p>Lukas groaned audibly and leant down to put his head in his hands. He just hoped that the rest of that stupid band weren’t also in the bar. “It’s Lukie!” Mathias crowed happily, reaching over and thumping Lukas on the back. “Whatcha doing here, Lukie?”</p><p>Lukas was going to stab that Danish wanking pile of shit. “Get your hand <em> off </em> me,” he snarled, flinching away and looking up at Timo, who was now regarding him curiously. </p><p>“How do you know him, Mat?” Timo questioned, passing Lukas his first drink - thankfully the beer. Lukas began to nurse it immediately. “He’s not a regular.”</p><p>Mathias gasped and tightened his grip around Lukas’s shoulders. “Tino, you hurt me!” the man grinned, running his free hand through his spiky blond hair. “This is <em> Lukas Bondevik </em>!”</p><p>Judging by Timo’s wide eyes, he was a Magical Bastards fan. “How didn’t I recognise you!” the younger man beamed, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. “Lukas! Please excuse Mathias - he’s an idiot! I’m Timo Väinämöinen!”</p><p>Lukas just nodded and sipped his beer again. No, scratch that - he downed half of it in one, enjoying the burn on the way down and the quick drunkenness that began to take over his body. “I met him today,” he replied. “I don’t like him.”</p><p>Timo chuckled loudly. “Neither do I,” he stage-whispered in a dramatic tone, ignoring Mathias’s hurt look that was shot his way. “Hey, drinks are on the house tonight! We’ve got a <em> proper </em>celebrity in!” when he said proper, Timo shot Mathias a pointed look. Lukas stifled a laugh at the Dane’s confusion at being called a non-celebrity. </p><p>“Keep the money,” Lukas insisted, waving away the attempt to be given back the kroner. “I don’t need it. It’s Arthur’s, anyway.”</p><p>Timo’s eyes widened even further if that was possible. “You’re both here?” he leant upon his tiptoes to look over Lukas’s shoulder. “And Lovino Vargas too!”</p><p>“Are they?” Mathias followed Timo’s look and clocked the pair - who clocked Mathias in return. “Oh shit, they don’t look happy.”</p><p>“Yeah, because we came here to get away from you and your merry band of fools,” Lukas rolled his eyes and finished off his drink. “What is this piss? Danish beer is weak sauce.”</p><p>“Agreed,” Timo was his new best friend, evidently. “I’m Finnish - I miss the alcohol back home.”</p><p>Lukas nodded, really wishing that his new Finnish friend would <em> shut the fuck up. </em>The alcohol available in Denmark was not strong enough to deal with Timo Väinämöinen. Or Mathias Køhler, for that matter. Maybe he was just drinking the wrong kinds of beverages. </p><p>“Timo,” Mathias cut in here, a confident smile on his face. “Two jack and cokes please - one for me and one for the lady."</p><p>Lukas automatically looked around for the aforementioned ‘lady’, growing increasingly confused as he realised him and Mathias were now the only two people at the bar. Maybe Mathias meant someone else? But no, the Danish man was looking straight at Lukas with a slightly predatory look on his face. </p><p>“Ah,” Lukas felt a flush rise on his cheeks, and he dropped Mathias’s gaze. This wasn’t how he had expected the evening (well, early morning) to go, by any means. But the alcohol was clearly getting to him more than he expected because he decided to drop his defence to the insult levelled at him. He prided himself on having a bigger-than-average sized dick, which he was <em> very </em>good at using, and was much not a lady in that regard. But he could tell when he was being flirted with - and hell, he hadn’t gotten laid in a long time.</p><p>Mathias smirked and winked at Timo as he passed Lukas his drink. Timo, to his credit, didn’t say anything, just rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath in Finnish as he walked away to deal with more customers. </p><p>“This is my favourite bar,” the Dane started saying, tapping his fingernails on the top of the counter. He was still staring at Lukas - and Lukas, now having grasped more of a hold of himself, stared right back. “Copenhagen is my home.”</p><p>“Is it now?” Lukas said, with a disinterested tone. He took a sip of his drink. “I’m from Bergen, in Norway.”</p><p>“I know,” maybe Lukas didn’t have it together after all, because he felt more than a little hot and bothered by Mathias right now. He did have really nice arms, and he could see the dark edge of a bright tattoo on his left shoulder. Lukas shifted slightly, angling his hips towards the bar so Mathias couldn’t see the growing bulge in his trousers. The Dane obviously noticed this deliberate movement, judging by his growing smirk. “I’ve done my research.”</p><p>“Oh goody, I have a stalker,” Lukas blew a strand of his hair out of his face, and (not for the first time that night) wished that he had managed to stop back at the hotel for a shower before stepping out on the city nightlife. He probably stank right now. “I’m with my friends, Køhler, so if you’ll excuse me-”</p><p>Lukas turned away, and started to walk back towards Arthur and Lovino, but was stopped by Mathias grabbing his wrist. He jolted, surprised, coming to his senses a second before he was pulled back to the bar, and right in front of a smirking, heavy-lidded Mathias. Lukas swallowed and tried to pull away, but the grip just tightened.</p><p>“Would you like to dance?” the Dane asked, in a low sultry voice, hooking his other arm around Lukas’s waist. Lukas could have easily been sat in the other’s lap by now, but he held his ground. He was nobody’s bitch.</p><p>But that didn’t stop him from leaning down and planting a kiss on the Dane’s cheek. “<em> Du er en fryktelig stikk </em>,” Lukas murmured in Mathias’s ear, gently nipping at his earlobe. Mathias shivered, and Lukas pulled away completely. He gave Mathias a small, jaunty wave, swaying his hips as he walked back to his booth. </p><p>“Where’re our fucking drinks, bastard?” Lovino spat the second that Lukas sat back down. “And what <em> the fuck </em>was that? All that crap you gave me about sleeping with the enemy, and-”</p><p>“Get your own fucking drinks,” Lukas sighed, resisting the urge to look back over at the bar. He was nobody’s bitch, least of all Mathias Køhler’s. “And I didn’t fuck him. He’s an arrogant <em> fittetryne </em>.”</p><p>Arthur was almost passed out on the table at this point, so Lovino sniffed and unsteadily got to his feet. “<em> I </em>shall claim our drinks,” he said calmly, tripping over his own feet as he wobbled toward the bar. Lukas snorted, watching as the singer left, before looking at the sad state of his British friend. </p><p>“Artie,” Lukas rarely used Arthur’s nickname, leaving it for the moments like now, when the Brit was passed out on tables or giving an impromptu drag show. “You good?”</p><p>A thumbs-up was Lukas’s only reply, which Lukas knew not to believe. He was an older brother, after all - he had been in charge of Emil through all of his first times, including the first time he got drunk. Thus, Lukas knew how to cope with Arthur through his worst times, and also knew what to warn Emil against at any cost.</p><p>Although Lukas knew that what Arthur needed was a shower and a good sleep to get all of the alcohol out of his system, but selfishly, some part of him did want to go back to the Dane at the bar. He nibbled at his bottom lip, thinking over the issue, and then trying to think of a suitable solution. One where Arthur would get to the hotel safely and he would get laid.</p><p>A spark of inspiration hit him when he saw a group of men over by the strippers. A group of sadly recognisable men. The Bad Touch - because of course, they would be into strippers <em> and </em> in the same bar as Mathias <em> fuck-me-eyes </em>Køhler. And drunk Lukas was vindictive to a fault. </p><p>“I’ll be back in a second,” Lukas gently patted Arthur’s shoulder and got to his feet. The alcohol had <em> really </em>hit him now, and it took all of his concentration to not trip or stumble as he walked over to the rest of the band, who were shoving kroner bills into the strippers’ tight underwear. He could feel Mathias’s gaze burning into his skull, and Lukas swung his hips a little, thanking all that was holy in Valhalla that he was wearing his nice jeans. </p><p>Alfred was unmistakeable - especially considering that his two compatriots were distinctive in colouring. Antonio was definitely Spanish (including from behind) and Gilbert’s hair was bleached enough that even a blind man would be able to tell that he was albino. Alfred was tall, browned-hair and definitely American, judging by the accent.</p><p>Mathias was definitely still focused on Lukas, so the Norwegian decided to put on a little show. He leant forward, just enough to stick his arse out, and tapped the American on the shoulder. “Alfred,” he whispered, putting a hand into his pocket to pull out his wallet.</p><p>Alfred jumped, looking around in shock and surprise. “Bondevik?” he sounded as surprised as he looked. “What’d’ya want? Kinda busy here.”</p><p>“I have a proposition for you,” Lukas jutted his hip out to one side, putting one slender hand on it. “I’ll give you 400 kroner if you take Arthur Kirkland back to our hotel.”</p><p>A quirked eyebrow. “That’s a lot,” Alfred noted, looking over at the table where Arthur sat, still prone. “He’s the cute one with the thick eyebrows, right?”</p><p>Lukas took offence to the word ‘cute’ to describe Arthur Kirkland, but he nodded all the same. “I have business to take care of,” he said simply. “I’m happy to go up to 500 if 400 kroner isn’t good enough for you.”</p><p>Alfred nodded quickly. “400 is fine,” he smirked slightly. “But who’s saying I wouldn’t take a hot guy like him home for free?”</p><p>“Take the damn money, Jones,” Lukas snapped, pulling four 100 kroner bills from his wallet. “Take the money and get him back so I can fuck Køhler.”</p><p>The American took the money quite quickly after that sentence, smirking even wider. “Yes, captain Bondevik!” he quipped. “You can put your faith in me!”</p><p>Lukas would rather put his faith in a burning plane than in Alfred Jones, but he chose to not bring that up at this precise moment. Alfred was already taking charge of Arthur, and he wasn’t about to object to that - especially after paying so much for it. And Mathias was still looking at him, slowly sipping his drink.</p><p>This time Lukas did sit in Mathias’s lap, straddling him with his legs. “Where were we?” he purred quietly, tucking a strand of the Dane’s messy hair behind his ear. Mathias put his drink down on the bartop, putting his hands on Lukas’s waist and pulling him closer.</p><p>“I believe I asked you to dance, <em> min kære </em>.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Translations:</p><p>Giù giù giù - down down down<br/>Faen av - fuck off<br/>Mi scusi - excuse me<br/>sbaglio - mistake<br/>Odio quel bastardo spagnolo - I hate that Spanish bastard<br/>schieße - shit<br/>perché - why<br/>un grosso cazzo - a big dick<br/>per favore - please<br/>s’il vous plait - please<br/>du er en fryktelig stikk - you're a horrible prick<br/>fittetryne - cunt face<br/>min kære - my dear</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Buzzfeed Studios</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It seems Arthur's gone too far this time.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I've had an amazing response to the first three chapters so far - thank you so much! I'm crossposting to Fanfiction.net and literally nobody is responding to it there so this love is so massively appreciated!</p><p>Just a heads up, this chapter might potentially have triggers for drug overdoses. I haven't gone into detail because I don't have enough medical knowledge but please be careful.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Arthur felt absolutely dead as he opened his eyes, slowly blinking in the harsh artificial light of the room he was laid in. His head hurt, his eyes hurt, and he didn’t exactly know what was happening. It took Arthur longer than usual to move his limbs, which were full of the drowsiness and relaxation of sleep, and when he did manage it, they ached like Arthur had been lifting weights the past evening.</p><p>Arthur groaned, and closed his eyes again, moving a hand up to his eyes to shield the light from reaching his corneas. <em> What had he done to himself </em>? </p><p>As his arm moved back down to the softness of the mattress, his fingertips grazed something unfamiliar. Arthur’s eyes shot open, praying to god that he’d used a condom - his lower back wasn’t hurting, so he obviously hadn’t bottomed… </p><p>Arthur’s eyes slowly began to adjust to the light in the room, and his heart dropped into his stomach. <em> Oh… fuck.  </em></p><p>This wasn’t good. He sat up quickly, ignoring how his head began to spin at the action. Because right next to him in his bed was Alfred<em> -motherfucking </em>-Jones. </p><p>If Arthur had been in control of his body, he probably would have screeched and pushed the American out of bed as quickly as he could - but he wasn’t. He was in shock, staring at the younger man, who was starfishing out across the mattress like he owned it (and had paid for the room). </p><p>
  <em> No, no, no… This wasn’t happening. </em>
</p><p>Finally, Arthur got a grip on himself and pondered his next action. Go crazy and throw Alfred Jones out of the bed, yelling at him that he was a possible rapist and had no idea how he got there, to begin with? Or quietly lie back down and try and go back to sleep, hoping that this was just a very bad dream.</p><p>Nope, it had to be the former. Arthur delivered a sharp kick to Alfred’s hip, and pushed the American sharply, smirking in satisfaction as the other man landed on the carpeted floor with a muted thud. Alfred’s eyes flew open immediately, wincing at the pain spreading through his arse. </p><p>“What’s tha’ for?” Alfred slurred sleepily, rubbing at his eyes. “I was havin’ a nice dream, yanno!”</p><p>Arthur sniffed, pulling the duvet up around his chest, which was noticeably bare. “What are you doing here?” he snarled, crossing his arms around the duvet to keep it up whilst he shuffled backwards against the headboard. Now he was more awake, his limbs were responding better, and didn’t ache quite as much as before. Although, saying that, Arthur’s head was spinning around, and the room was tilted on a strange axis. “Alfred FUCKING JONES, WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY BED?”</p><p>Alfred sat up - <em> thank god the oaf had underwear on, even if it was Stars and Stripes themed </em> - and rubbed his head. “That hurt,” he pouted, looking up at Arthur with big puppy dog eyes. “Can I come back in?”</p><p>“NO!” Arthur roared - instantly regretting it as the room began to spin again. “What… Why are you here?”</p><p>Now, Alfred dropped his kicked puppy expression for a more devious one, smirking at the Englishman. “What do you think?” he asked suggestively, earning another glare from Arthur. “Nah, nah - I was just takin’ you home, couldn’t be bothered to walk back to my own room.”</p><p>Arthur flopped back down on the bed, at least slightly satisfied with that response. “Why didn’t Lukas and Lovino take me home?” he groaned, closing his eyes again to try and ignore the annoying man sat on his hotel room floor. “And Jones - if we fucked last night-”</p><p>“Hey-” Alfred stood up now - his star-spangled crotch almost level with Arthur’s face. “Artie - I wouldn’t do that to you, y’know? You passed out on me the second we got into the elevator, and I’m not that unawesome to force myself on you whilst you’re asleep.”</p><p>Arthur just raised an eyebrow. “Answer my question,” he said angrily, opening his eyes again but closing them as soon as he was greeted with Alfred’s morning wood. Not his style. Also not the most pleasant sight with a hangover. “Where are Lukas and Lovino?”</p><p>“Ah,” Alfred rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand, sitting down on the bed next to Arthur. The latter chose not to throw the American off again but did open his eyes now he didn’t have to look directly at the man’s dick. “Well… Uh…”</p><p>“Spit it out, Yankee,” Arthur rolled his eyes, wishing he had something to drink, or take, that was within arm’s reach. Dealing with Alfred Jones in the early morning was not what he wanted or needed. “Why did you bring me back last night?”</p><p>“Lukas paid me,” Alfred shrugged. “I think he was a bit... too busy.”</p><p>Arthur sat up again at this, letting the duvet fall back down. “What?” Lukas was never ‘too busy’, he was the most responsible of the whole trio. Even when the Norwegian was drunk, he would always make sure Arthur got back without passing out on the side of the road and held Lovino back from bar fights with errant annoying people that tried to grope the singer. This was the first time in the whole of his relationship with the Scandinavian that he hadn’t played the role of mum to the other two. “Lukas? Too busy with what?”</p><p>He almost regretted asking that, judging by the ever-growing smirk on Alfred’s face. “Oh, he was <em> busy, </em>” the American laughed, a sound that hurt Arthur’s ears. “Realllllll busy… The walls in this hotel are pretty thin, I’m surprised they didn’t wake you up.”</p><p>Arthur snorted. “You’re joking, yank,” he chuckled under his breath, moving around the American to get to his feet. The ground wobbled underneath him, but after a couple of seconds, it stablised. <em> Hair of the dog </em>, he muttered under his breath, as Arthur made his way towards the liquor cabinet. “Lukas is a prude. He was born with a large stick in his arse and he hasn’t found a way to pull it out yet.”</p><p>“That’s what they all say,” Alfred smirked again, taking the space vacated by Arthur and flopping down backwards. “It sounds like the stick was replaced with summat tho’, if ya get my drift.”</p><p>Arthur pulled a disgusted face and ignored Alfred’s echoing laughter. He unstoppered the bottle, not checking to see what the label said, and took a swig. Thankfully, it was palatable and stabilised Arthur enough to stop the room from swimming around him. He calmed somewhat and thought about the issue in hand. </p><p>“Get out of my room,” he said calmly, keeping his voice level. “I want to get dressed. I have an interview to give today.”</p><p>Alfred looked unsure. “Sure you should be drinking that?” he asked, but threw his arms up in defeat at Arthur’s withering glance. “Okay, okay… Just be careful, yanno?”</p><p>“Fuck off, yank,” Arthur swigged from the bottle again, licking his lips somewhat to try and counteract their dryness. He was going to have to do some real work this morning to get himself presentable. “Are you going to leave?”</p><p>Alfred paused - but then he shook his head. “No,” he said adamantly. “I told Lukas I’d look after you, and that’s what I’m going to do! Heroes don’t let their friends down!”</p><p><em> In what universe are we friends, yank? </em>Arthur muttered to himself but chose not to press the issue. Instead, he looked around the room for a dressing gown, finding a nicely plush one hung on the back of the ensuite’s door. “Okay,” he mumbled, setting the booze bottle down on the side and reaching u to grab the white robe from the peg. It took him longer than usual to gain his balance, but when he did Arthur wrapped the gown around him, slipping his arms into the sleeves and tying it up. “I’ll leave, then.”</p><p>He didn’t wait for Alfred’s response - there was little chance of it being a positive response, anyway. Arthur was too hungover to cope with this, and he needed to sit in a room with the calming influence of Lukas. Not whatever aura Alfred was currently emitting. It wasn’t conducive to his mental state or headache. </p><p>Arthur was vaguely aware of Alfred springing to his feet, looking very alarmed, but Arthur ignored him. He grabbed his bottle again, pushing it into the robe’s pocket, and made tracks to the door. A quick lucid moment - <em> yes, it would probably be useful to remember the key card to his room </em>. But then Arthur was swinging the door open and slamming it shut in front of the yank. </p><p>One of the more unfortunate side effects of being hungover was the sieve-like holes in Arthur’s brain. <em> What was he doing, again? Ah - yes. Lukas. Peace. Peace and </em> fucking <em> quiet. </em></p><p>Arthur shuffled over to the front of Lukas’s hotel door, and knocked sharply, waiting for the familiar call of ‘come in’, with the distinctive accent and quiet resignation of upcoming company, even for his friends. </p><p>Yet - nothing, this morning. No returning call, no sound at all. Arthur couldn’t even hear snoring or snuffling. Just dead silence. He knocked again, craning his head to the crack in the door. Finally, something was stirring within. The quiet sounds of someone sitting up in beds, sheets against sheets. </p><p>“Come in,” Lukas sounded like he’d just woken up. Understandable, considering the early hour. Normally Arthur wouldn’t dream of waking anyone up so early, but these were extraordinary circumstances. In which he needed to get as far away from the American Alfred Jones as humanly possible and forget that this morning had ever happened. And hopefully, get Lukas to share his Norwegian coffee as well. </p><p>Arthur tried the door and it was unlocked, as it gently slid open along the carpet. The Englishman breathed a sigh of relief as he encountered no resistance, and stepped into the room, not bothering to glance over at the bed. “Lukas- what the fuck were you doing tonight?” he asked, turning to make sure the door was properly closed behind them. “And why did I wake up with Alfred Fucking Jones?”</p><p>There was a beat of silence before Lukas responded. “I paid him,” the Norwegian man still sounded groggy. “I was too busy to bring you back.”</p><p>Arthur finally turned around and took in the scene in front of him, flinching back as he did. “Holy fuck, Lukas,” he smirked, finally believing Alfred’s words. “How much did you get last night?”</p><p>Lukas just looked at Arthur with an emotionless expression. “A man’s got needs,” he said simply. “Nothing happen between you and ‘Alfie’ then?”</p><p>Arthur blushed at his drunken nickname for the dreaded Yank. He thanked all that was holy that Alfred was still safely sequestered next door. “Nothing, I think,” he admitted. “I don’t want to shag that bloody Yankee anyway - who knows what kinds of diseases he’s got?”</p><p>Lukas was silent, and Arthur’s alcohol riddled brain slowly began to tick again. <em> What had Alfred said, again? </em>No, he didn’t remember being told anything too incriminating, but then again…</p><p>Behind the pair, the door to the ensuite bathroom swung open, and Arthur turned around in surprise, interested to see just who Lukas’s conquest was. </p><p>“YOU’RE FUCKING KIDDING ME!” The Englishman yelled, turning back to his bandmate, who didn’t so much as blink. “You… YOU WHORE!”</p><p>“Like whatcha see?” Mathias smirked, wiggling his hips under the towel tied around his waist. “Ah, I forgot ya were a prude, Artie.”</p><p>Arthur flushed bright red, and looked back at Lukas, then back to Mathias, and then back to his drummer again. “I can’t believe this,” he said, mouth agape. “Bloody hell, I wish I <em> had </em> fucked Alfred now! Then this wouldn’t be such a <em> betrayal </em>!”</p><p>“Aww, bless ya heart Artie,” Arthur whirled around to see Alfred smirking in the corner of the room, arms crossed. “We can go back and bang now if ya want?”</p><p>“No!” Arthur almost yelled, but he caught himself in time. That wasn’t his goal - no, far from it. He turned back to look at Lukas, who was pulling on a pair of underwear underneath the messy, sticky sheets on the bed. “Lukas… Why?”</p><p>Lukas was silent like he was thinking of a suitable response, but then he shrugged again. “He’s got a large dick.”</p><hr/><p>Needless to say, the atmosphere in the interview room was tense, at the very least. The two bands were hardly speaking to each other, having moved their chairs as far apart as they could without drawing too much attention to their animosity. Lovino was grinding his teeth and glaring across at the Spaniard, Antonio Carriedo, and trying his best to ignore Lukas.</p><p>Arthur had called Lovino the moment he could at the news of Lukas’s betrayal, and although Lovino could hardly say anything, he was still quietly furious. Mostly with the Danish Beer bastard more than his bandmate, because it just proved that the Bad Touch was full of perverts, but Lukas still received his ire. </p><p>Luckily the woman from Buzzfeed who was conducting their interview didn’t notice that nothing was amiss between the two groups, and was happily firing off questions and getting decent enough responses. Francis was stood in the back of the room, like a shadow that refused to disappear even in the moonlight, beady eyes and winning smile overlooking the situation. </p><p>Even if Francis did feel the anger vibrating through the air, he hadn’t commented on it. In fact, he was watching the group of men with an almost smug expression. Mathias eyed the Frenchman warily, but feeling like at the very least he was protecting Mathias from getting his head chopped off, he relaxed somewhat.</p><p>“So, do you ever find it strange that you’re all labelmates?” the lady asked, holding a microphone out towards the Bad Touch. “It’s not often that a label signs such different acts.”</p><p>Gilbert grinned and reached forward to take the mike from their interviewer. “We’re that awesome,” he laughed aloud, glancing towards the camera set up in one corner. “The label likes international acts - and me and my awesome band are international, <em> ja </em>?”</p><p>“Very true!” the woman had a second microphone that she was speaking into - Lukas blinked, wondering where it had appeared from. “The Bad Touch are… where are you all from, exactly?”</p><p>“Prussia,” Gilbert insisted, puffing out his chest in self-importance. “Mat is from Denmark, Antonio is from Spain - and Alfred is from the States!” </p><p>Alfred nodded, gesturing for the microphone to be passed to him. “USA baby,” he smirked, winking into the camera. Across the way, Arthur rolled his eyes. </p><p>The lady giggled, and now it was turn for Lukas to roll his eyes as she eyed the quartet up and down, obviously wondering whether any of them would take her for a drink after. Obviously she wasn’t quite so interested in Arthur or Lovino - although both of them did scream ‘GAY’ as much as Soho in June. Lukas crossed his arms and silently waited for the attention to return to his band.</p><p>Gilbert smiled slyly at the woman, earning a blush from the interviewer, and Alfred silently sighed inwardly. Of course, the albino would be the man to get lucky with the hot Buzzfeed lady. The American glanced over to the other band and tried to catch Arthur’s gaze. Despite himself, he rather liked the Englishman - he was certainly attractive, even if he was covered in tattoos. As for the other two… Well, they were very much spoken for, if Antonio and Mathias had anything to say about it.</p><p>“My god, Alfred!” Mathias had said, once they’d gotten out of Lukas’s hotel room and left the two bandmates to bicker. “I’m not gonna lie, that’s the best sex I’ve had in… Well, forever!”</p><p>“Dude!” Alfred had high-fived the singer, beaming from ear to ear. “Do I wanna know the grisly deets? Or will it be saved for tonight?”</p><p>Mathias had gone into deep, excruciating detail on every aspect of his night with Lukas Bondevik, and even Alfred had to admit that the seemingly cold Norwegian wasn’t unattractive. The little sex kitten attitude that Mathias insisted he had in bed wasn’t too far-fetched either - <em> yup </em>, Alfred could definitely imagine the Norwegian boy underneath himself, begging for more…</p><p>“And you three, too,” the interviewer finally spoke again, making Alfred jump out of his slightly dazed stupor. “You all met at university in England, correct?”</p><p>Lovino nodded, taking the microphone from the woman. “It was fate,” he said, a slight grimace on his face. <em> Was that his attempt at a smile? </em>“I am from Italy - Palermo, exactly,” he stated, before quickly passing the mike down to Lukas.</p><p>Lukas avoided looking at Mathias - however much he wanted to - as he stated his answer. “Bergen, in Norway,” he nodded, gently nudging Arthur with his shoulder. “Arthur?”</p><p>Arthur didn’t respond. Lukas frowned - this silent treatment thing was going too far. He’d only slept with the man, it wasn’t like they were going to get married and adopt three children and a cat. It wasn’t serious if anything it was a mistake. So why was Arthur being such a dick about it?</p><p>Lukas gently shook Arthur’s shoulder, but when he noticed how floppy the man’s limbs were, he shot to his feet. “Water!” he yelled, pushing Arthur’s head back. Lovino sprang into action, racing over to the water provided for them on the table, tipping the whole jug over the Englishman’s head. </p><p>Alfred quickly moved over to the man too, taking his body from Lukas’s arms. “What can I do?” he asked, looking down at Arthur. His head was lolling to one side now, a dribble of spittle coming out of one corner of his mouth. “I- I know some first aid, if that helps-”</p><p>“Shut up!” Lukas spat, passing Alfred the empty water jug. “<em>Jævel…</em> <em>jævla våkner du jævel!</em>”</p><p>Mathias quirked an eyebrow. “<em> Det er lidt hårdt </em>,” he quipped, knowing that Lukas would be able to understand him. </p><p>Lukas whirled around, looking right at Mathias. “<em> Han er døende </em> ,” he said instantly, looking right into Mathias’s eyes. “ <em> Hjelp. Vær så snill </em>.”</p><p>“We need an ambulance,” Mathias translated, grabbing his phone and handing it to Gilbert. “<em> Fanden </em>- what happened?”</p><p>There was no immediate answer. Mathias wasn’t the one to break it though - Alfred beat him to it. “I’m stupid,” he said quietly, moving to Arthur’s shoulder. “I… I think he must have taken some shit this morning - after I left.”</p><p>“That’s impossible,” Lukas shook his head. “I was there with him, all morning. He was drunk, yes, but not catatonic.”</p><p>“I hate to break up the party,” Gilbert interjected, an awkward expression on his face. “But… Ah, these are the signs of a heroin overdose.”</p><p>“HOW WOULD YOU KNOW THAT, POTATO BASTARD?” Lovino yelled, pushing Gilbert backwards. “Get away from my <em> amico, bastardo </em>!”</p><p>Gilbert just shook his head and pulled up the arm of his jacket. “Trust me, I know,” he said, simply, glancing over at Antonio. “I-”</p><p>“<em> Attendre! </em> ” Francis cut in, grasping Lukas’s shoulders. “Ah - I think we need to turn the cameras off now, <em> oui </em>? And perhaps reschedule?”</p><p>The interviewer lady, with wide, confused eyes, just nodded. She grasped her notepad and scurried out of the room, glancing behind her once. “I’ll, uh, let them… know,” she said awkwardly. “...thanks for your time!”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Translations:<br/>"Jævel… jævla våkner du jævel" - Fuck... Fucking wake up you bastard! (Norwegian)<br/>"Det er lidt hårdt" - That's a little harsh (Danish)<br/>"Han er døende" - He's dying (Norwegian)<br/>"Hjelp. Vær så snill" - Help. Please (Norwegian)<br/>"Fanden" - Fuck (Danish)<br/>"amico" - friend (Italian)<br/>"bastardo" - bastard (Italian)</p><p>But ooooooh the plot thickens! I have so many plans for the rest of this story - I'll do mini arcs for each pairing, but I've set up the background for DenNor, USUK and Spamano and Mattie will be coming along veryyyyyyyy soon ;) </p><p>I'm sorry for the slightly stilted ending but it could have gone on for ages and I thought it was better to cut my losses and move onto the next chapter and some nice angst. And hopefully some PruCan.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. I'm Coming Out (Unwillingly)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Well... Maybe the middle of a Buzzfeed interview isn't the best place to have a seizure, Arthur.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for the comments and love!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The hospital waiting room smelt of disinfectant and sadness, and its occupants were silent in their vigil. They’d been in there for what seemed like days, but what was probably only hours in actuality. Time was passing differently. It had since the second Arthur’s head had tilted back. </p><p>Antonio and Gilbert stood back from the rest of the group, painfully aware that they were intruding on a moment they didn’t really have a connection to. At least Alfred and Mathias were somewhat related to the situation at hand - Alfred pacing up and down the room, eyes full of guilt, and Mathias awkwardly trying to comfort the angry Norwegian man. </p><p>“Are you okay, <em> amigo </em>?” Antonio asked quietly, patting Gilbert’s shoulder. He knew the German (sorry, Prussian) man well, and although neither of the pair was close with Arthur Kirkland, Gilbert had been in his position before. He had been the one in the hospital bed with friends gathered around, hoping that everything would turn out okay.</p><p>Gilbert was rubbing his left arm self-consciously, but nodded all the same, seemingly lost in thought. “<em> Ja </em>,” he muttered, not bothering to turn to look at his friend or meet his gaze. “I’m okay. It’s not me you should be worried about.”</p><p>Antonio shrugged. “You’re worthy of worry too, <em> mi amigo </em>,” Gilbert wouldn’t believe those words, but he said them all the same. “I know you don’t like to talk about-”</p><p>“<em> Verpiss dich </em> ,” Gilbert met Antonio’s eyes now, glaring at him. “I don’t <em>w</em> <em> ant </em>to talk about it, ‘Tonio.”</p><p>There was no point pressing the subject or trying to convince Gilbert that, after so many years, he had no need to be ashamed of his past. Antonio knew that much. So, he turned his attention back to the scene before him, and Lovino Vargas. </p><p>Antonio really liked the little spitfire Italian - he wasn’t even sure why. They’d met in the hotel bar two nights ago, both unaware of the other’s presence until Lovino started yelling something vulgar in Italian. That had gained Antonio’s attention alright, and after a few drinks they’d wound up in bed together.</p><p>Normally Antonio wouldn’t look twice at a one-night stand, but Lovino was cute, and talented at his craft. Watching him sing the night before had been an experience, and although the music the Bastards played wasn’t to Antonio’s own liking, it had still shown how good the younger man was. He had been secretly rather pleased when Francis had admitted that he booked the two bands for the same interview, and although Lovino didn’t express similar feeling of, Antonio had still hoped that it would spark off something new for them.</p><p>Of course, that had been cockblocked by Arthur Kirkland’s drug overdose, but he wasn’t about to complain. Except in his mind, because Antonio was <em> horny </em> goddammit, and Lovino was truly gorgeous. But no - <em> stop thinking about that, estúpido </em>. Now was not the time. Lovino was hurting, and you would have to be a truly gigantic idiot to try something in a place like this. </p><p>Gilbert’s mind was far away from the room, and much more firmly rooted in the past than the present. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing here, honestly - but Alfred had wanted to come and Mathias was mooning over Bondevik, so he and Tonio were pulled along, like usual.</p><p>He didn’t want to be here, that was for sure. Gilbert had played his part, confirming to the nurses that arrived in the ambulance that, yes, it was a heroin overdose and yes, he was sure, even though he hadn’t seen Arthur inject the substance directly. Neither group had been given the chance to examine Arthur’s arms to see if he was truly fucked or if he’d just messed up this one time - the Englishman had been swept away by paramedics instantaneously. </p><p>“Sorry I’m late!” </p><p>The group turned to look at the man running into the room, someone Gilbert thought he recognised. For a second, it looked to be Alfred - but Alfred had been pacing the room up until that moment, wearing a pathway into the already worn down hospital floor. This wasn’t Alfred, despite how much the man resembled him. His hair was lighter, for one, and instead of a cowlick this man had a similarly situated curl. </p><p>“Mattie!” Alfred surged forward and threw his arms around the newcomer, almost knocking him off his feet. “Mattie- where were you? I called you three hours ago-”</p><p>Mattie. <em> Mattie </em>. Gilbert vaguely remembered the name ‘Matthew’ being dropped into conversations with Alfred before - was this that Matthew? He was certainly an Alfred lookalike, so maybe he was Alfred’s cousin, or brother (although the latter would be strange and Gilbert didn’t remember being told that Alfred had a family at all, let alone a twin). </p><p>“Well, I’m here now, eh?” the man - <em> Mattie </em> - brushed his damp hair out of his face. Oh, he was absolutely dripping wet, too. Was it raining outside? <em> Talk about pathetic fallacy </em>. “What’s wrong? What happened? Are you alright?”</p><p>“Who’s this?” Lukas spoke up unexpectedly, having been silent for the past five hours. He didn’t move, however, just looking up with an emotionless expression. “This isn’t a party, Jones.”</p><p>Lovino still didn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes said enough. “Everyone,” Alfred said, a small smile cracking his face. He swung an arm around Mattie’s shoulders, and pulled the other man closer to his side. “This is my very awesome brother, Matthew!”</p><p>Mattie flushed slightly pink, and pushed his glasses further up his nose. “Hey,” he said quietly, offering the assembled group an awkward wave. “Um… y-yeah. I’m Alfred’s older brother.”</p><p>“By barely a year!” Alfred scowled, although the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “Anyway, Mattie here-”</p><p>“Excuse me,” Lukas piped up again, his expression having morphed from interest to a full on glare. “No offence intended, but this isn’t exactly the best time for a <em> social visit </em>.”</p><p>Gilbert winced at Lukas’s tone, which was sharp and tinged with icy disregard. He felt like he should say something to pull the awkward newcomer out of the increasingly souring situation, but Gilbert was never the best with words (English ones, anyway). Alfred seemed more than willing to protect his twin, however. </p><p>“He’s picking me up, <em> Bondevik </em>,” Alfred snapped, pulling his brother closer to him again. Matthew looked like he was about to pass out from lack of air, but his frantically flapping hands didn’t do much to persuade Alfred to let go. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to stay here all night.”</p><p>“Why did you even come in the first place <em> bastardo </em>?” Lovino glared, crossing his arms. “We didn’t want you here - we didn’t want any of you fucking assholes here!”</p><p>“I wanted to help!” Alfred looked halfway between punching and hugging the Italian boy - it was a strange expression. “We all did!”</p><p>“Like <em> fuck </em>you did!” Lovino’s voice was getting louder and louder with every swear that passed his lips. “You just want to get into Arthur’s pants, you fucking pervert!”</p><p>“Like hell I do!” Alfred yelled back, walking up to Lovino and jabbing a finger into his chest. “Like I’d bang that fucking limey! Are you saying I’m a fag? Is that what you’re saying?”</p><p>“Um- Alf-”</p><p>“Stay out of this Mattie, it’s none of your business,” Alfred cut over his twin, and Gilbert felt an irrational flare of anger spark in his gut. He knew what it was to be spoken over and ignored - especially by his brother. Matthew looked a little upset at his treatment by Alfred, too. The German tried to shoot him a smile, but Mattie was just looking right at the ground, almost blending into the background. </p><p>“Is that why you’re here, too?” Lukas didn’t yell, but the coolness of his voice was scary enough on his own. He looked right at Mathias, who refused to hold the other man’s gaze. “Are you here to help or are you just trying to fuck me again?”</p><p>Mathias opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish - a gesture that in any other circumstance would be hilarious. But right now, it just proved Lukas’s and Lovino’s points. “Get the fuck out,” Lovino said quietly, voice trembling. “Leave. All of you. Now.”</p><p>Matthew looked incredibly thankful to have an excuse to leave the room and grasped Alfred’s arm. “Come on,” his voice was almost a whisper. “Alfred- <em> come on </em>.”</p><p>“Yeah, Alfred, we should go and get some pizza, <em> ja </em>?” Gilbert spoke for the first time since the cute American (was Mattie American?) had entered the waiting room. Hopefully, if he got Alfred and Mathias away from the situation then they could all get dropped off by Matthew, and then he and the newbie could have a totally awesome discussion over pizza and a movie, and then maybe move upstairs-</p><p>“No!” Alfred cut in, eyes dark as he looked over at his bandmate. “We’re trying to help, Vargas - and for what it’s worth, I don’t much like Kirkland anyway!”</p><p>“Then why <em> the fuck </em> are you here?” Lukas got to his feet now. “Williams, take your brother and his friends and go. Before I get security to <em> throw you out </em>.”</p><p>“It’s not a club, Lukie, you don’t get security in here,” Mathias sneered, his mouth running away from him again. “Although considering by the amount of heroin Kirkland’s done, I don’t think he would be able to tell the difference.”</p><p>Lukas turned to Mathias, eyes turning from ice to fire. He looked like he was about to say something - but instead decided to return the words with a loud slap, knocking the Dane sideways into the wall. </p><p>“Get <em> the fuck out </em> ,” he snapped, eyes narrowing. “Before I <em> fucking kill you, </em> Køhler <em> . </em>”</p><p>Gilbert surged forward, grabbing Mathias’s arm before he could do any more damage to the already strained relationship between the two groups. He didn’t stop to say anything to the other man, knowing well enough that the weight training he did every morning was more than enough to drag the Dane out the door, down the stairs and into the pouring rain outside. Mathias snarled as he was yanked away, but it was enough to make the rest of the group follow. </p><p>“What the fuck was that, Mat?” Gilbert growled, letting go of Mathias’s arm. “What the <em> fuck </em>was that? Do you really think that less of Kirkland?”</p><p>Mathias looked slightly uncomfortable at the idea of being questioned in an open hospital corridor, so he started to walk in the direction of the entrance. The rest followed him, Gilbert keeping one or two paces ahead of his friend. “The fuck?” he snarled again, clenching his fists in his t-shirt. “The <em> fuck </em>Mathias?”</p><p>“He’s a fucking addict, alright?” Mathias’s voice rose in volume as he said this, cheeks tinging red. “I don’t have to pretend to give a damn about the bastard-”</p><p>“He’s a ‘fucking addict’?” Gilbert shot back, eyes narrow and cold. “Watch what you say, <em> Arschloch</em>. This ‘fucking addict’ can pin you to the ground if he wants to.”</p><p>“Guys!” Antonio cut in, moving between the pair before blood could fly. “Calm down- we shouldn’t have this argument here. Mat… Max? No, Matthew,” the Spaniard spun around and grinned at the American twins. “He’s going to take us back to the hotel-”</p><p>“He’s going to take us to his hotel!” Alfred unhelpfully cut in here. “And get us some pizza, aren’t you Mattie?”</p><p>Matthew muttered something under his breath that none of the assembled quite caught, but didn’t complain audibly. He just stuck to the back of the arguing Bad Touch, pulling out his car keys and clicking them once, then twice. A red Mazda beeped and flashed from across the car park.</p><p>“Shotgun!” Gilbert yelled, racing through the downpour to the side of the car. He smirked at Alfred’s scowl. “The awesome me always gets shotgun!”</p><p>“Shut up, <em> røv </em>,” Mathias grumbled, jogging slightly to catch up with the albino. Gilbert ignored him. “Get us out of this fuckin’ rain.”</p><p>Matthew said nothing as he climbed into the driver’s seat, only throwing a towel to the back seat as the three others piled in. “Don’t get it too wet, eh?” he said, with the air of someone who was already resigned to defeat. </p><p>Gilbert just grinned across at the man, who looked back at him warily. “I’m Gilbert!” he said cheerfully, reaching out a hand for Mattie to shake. Mattie didn’t take it. “I’m Prussian!”</p><p>Matthew snorted, turning the key in the ignition. “I know,” he said simply, as he pulled the stick shift and started to move out of the parking lot. </p><p>Gilbert was undeterred by Mattie’s apparent disinterest in him and ploughed into the questions he’d thought up on the walk from the hospital to the car. “Are you American like Alfred, then?” he started, not giving the other time to reply before he continued. “Why are you here, anyway? Are you some kind of groupie or something?”</p><p>He cackled as Matthew’s face went slightly pink, and a wet towel hit him in the back of the head. “Oi, no being mean to my brother,” Alfred frowned. “Or I’ll personally make sure that you never ride shotgun again.”</p><p>It took a few moments for the car to pull out onto the highway, but finally, Matthew answered. “Canadian,” he clarified. “Alfred’s my half-brother.”</p><p>“The better half!” Alfred piped up from the backseat. “Matthew’s mum died when he was a baby, and his dad found my mum pretty fast after that!”</p><p>Matthew rolled his eyes and cut over Alfred’s rambling. “And I’m here with my boyfriend,” he said, a phrase that immediately cut through Gilbert’s daydreams. “He’s here for work, and I tagged along for once.”</p><p>“You just missed me too much!” Alfred chirped, in a way that made Gilbert want to punch him. <em> No, Alfred, not now. I’ve just found out the man of my dreams is already taken.</em></p><p>The proverbial devil that always sat on Gilbert’s left shoulder rubbed its hands together greedily and moved closer to Gilbert’s ear. <em> Never stopped you before </em>, it muttered gleefully, egging on the German (Prussian) to keep pursuing the younger blonde. </p><p>“No,” Gilbert mumbled, drawing a curious look from the car driver. “Nevermind. Just… Y’know, thinking out loud.”</p><p>He ground his teeth together as the car journey dragged on, made slower by the massive puddles on the road. Mathias was staring down at his hands in the back of the car, consciously avoiding looking anywhere near his bandmates. You could cut the tension with a knife, and a blunt one at that.</p><p>“Are we nearly there yet?” Alfred cut in again, voice far too cheerful considering current events (Arthur Kirkland nearly dying notwithstanding, Gilbert had just been so not awesomely shut down for his mental date with Matthew Williams). </p><p>With Alfred acting a third of his age and Mathias refusing to join in any of the conversations floating around the car, the journey dragged on, and Gilbert found his thoughts drifting back to the Magical Bastards. He wasn’t sure <em> why </em>Francis had thought it was a good idea to put the two groups together in a major interview, but the Frenchman was crazy. </p><p>Gilbert loved being a guitarist, it really suited him. He’d been learning since he was a wee Prussian lad, in the fields of Germany- well, in the centre of Berlin just after the wall came down. The best guitarists needed the best drummers to back them up, hence Alfred F. Jones. Lukas Bondevik seemed too quiet to be an awesome drummer like Alfie - hell, he gave a bad name to the drumming tradition! </p><p>As for Arthur… Gilbert rubbed his arm uncomfortably and tried to think about absolutely anything else. He wasn’t a superstitious man, but in his experience thinking about bad things always made them come true. And Gilbert wasn’t about to take any chances. That would be so not awesome of him.</p><p>“Oi! Gilly!” Alfred hit Gilbert with the wet towel again, startling the albino out of his stupor. The German flinched at the damp contact and scowled, glancing over at Matthew a final time before reluctantly climbing out of the car. “We’re here!”</p><p>“<em>Ja, ja, ich weiß </em> ,” Gilbert grumbled, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pocket and marching inside, into the hotel and away from the not-awesomeness that was his very new unrequited crush. “<em>Arschloch </em>…”</p><p>“Gilbert, <em> mon ami,” </em>Francis came rushing towards him. “How is Arthur? Is he awake?”</p><p>Gilbert very much didn’t want to talk right now, but he sighed and bit the bullet. “We don’t know,” he admitted. “If you care that much, why aren’t you there?”</p><p>Francis bristled, eyebrows furrowing. “Gilbert,” he said warningly. “You know I would if I could but-”</p><p>“Yeah, you’re a busy frog, we get it,” Gilbert muttered, ushing past his manager. “I’m going to bed, I’m tired.”</p><p>Francis didn’t seem to hear him, however, as he had walked off towards the door to greet the rest of them. And-</p><p>
  <em> Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me. </em>
</p><p>-placed a kiss right on Matthew Williams’ waiting lips.</p><hr/><p>Lukas’s back was cramping from where he’d been sleeping in the stiff hospital chair, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to move yet. Arthur had been placed into a medically induced coma whilst the drugs and alcohol were pumped from his system, and still hadn’t awoken. Lukas’s phone was quickly running out of charge, but of course, Francis hadn’t come by with the promised resupply yet. </p><p>Lovino had wandered off to find him and Lukas some much-needed coffee and Red Bull, leaving the Norwegian alone with the sleeping Englishman and the gently beeping machines. Not anyone’s favourite place to be, and especially not when it was their friend in the bed. </p><p>If Lukas had been a sentimental man, which he was not, maybe he would be crying about now, or at least holding Arthur’s hand. Instead, he was using the prone body of Arthur Kirkland as a verbal punching bag to work off his anger towards a certain quartet of arseholes.</p><p>“I can’t fucking believe them,” he sighed, head in his hands. “Can you? They said they were here to help, then fucking <em> Mathias </em>of all people decides to say that shit about drug addicts... I really liked him, you know?”</p><p>Really liking someone was rare for Lukas, who usually found everyone except Arthur and Lovino vile and exceptionally hard to deal with. This had been an issue throughout his life, to the point where he’d resigned himself to never making friends, ever. Arthur and Lovino had changed that for him, and he wasn’t about to give one or either of those people up.</p><p>Lukas sighed again and placed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Wake up, you fuck,” he mumbled. “If you don’t wake up then we’ll have to break up the band, and I know you wouldn’t want that to happen.”</p><p>Lovino chose that precise moment to walk into the hospital room armed with two paper cups full of shitty hospital coffee. Lukas quickly withdrew his hand from Arthur’s shoulder - but if Lovino noticed the gesture, he didn’t comment on it. “Anything?” he asked with a yawn, passing Lukas one of the cups.</p><p>“Nothing,” Lukas responded, cupping the coffee in two hands and taking a gulp. Yup, it was as disgusting as he expected, but he needed it. “Have you heard anything from Francis?”</p><p>A scoff. “Of course not,” Lovino sipped his own coffee, pulling a face at the taste. “That bastard doesn’t give a shit about anything other than his dick.”</p><p>Lukas nodded, setting the cup down to one side and gesturing for one of the Red Bulls. “Thanks,” he muttered, digging his long nail under the ring pull and cracking the indent with a hiss that echoed in the room. “You okay?”</p><p>“I hate that bastard,” and that was all Lovino needed to say to get the point across. The Bad Touch was a four-piece of shit band. “I can’t fucking believe that Danish bastard said that about Arthur.”</p><p>Lukas pulled his legs up onto the chair he was sat on, tucking his knees up under his chin. One of the advantages of being short and slightly underweight - he could fit into very small places, and curl himself up into a tight ball when he needed that sort of comfort. “Antonio seems nice,” was all he offered, after letting the room drift into silence.</p><p>Lovino flushed red, taking a long drink from his coffee to distract from it. Normally Lukas would tease him mercilessly about that, but right now didn’t seem like the time. “He’s a bastard,” was all Lovino offered. </p><p>He didn’t really have much of a response to that, so Lukas just continued to drink from his can, turning his attention from Arthur to the window. Somewhere over the course of the night, it had stopped raining and burst into the bright sunshine. Lukas had slept through that moment, just like he’d slept through ward rounds. He could sleep anywhere, for hours. </p><p>His phone buzzed in his pocket, and Lukas pulled it out, vaguely wondering if it was Emil. But no - the number that flashed up on his phone was unfamiliar until the turned into a contact. </p><p>Obviously somewhere over the course of their night together, Mathias had programmed his number into Lukas’s phone. A stupid selfie of the man, topless (because of course) popped up, with the Dane pulling a cross-eyed expression with his tongue lolling out. Beneath the photo was the name ‘BIG DICK DANE.</p><p>Lukas’s thumb hovered over the accept button, but he shook his head to himself and pressed the little red phone instead. He felt a strange pang in his stomach as he did so, but chose to ignore it - <em> probably just hungry.  </em></p><p>Lovino shot Lukas a curious glance, but the Norwegian man just shook his head. He didn’t want to go into his strange feelings surrounding Mathias Køhler right now, and if he was going to leave Lovino alone about Antonio Carriedo, he could be left alone too. </p><p>The pair sat in silence for another few minutes - Lukas’s phone buzzing once again, and then once more after that, before finally running out of charge. <em> No more Candy Crush for me, then </em> he thought sadly. </p><p>“Gentlemen!” </p><p>Lovino jumped to his feet, beating Lukas to it. A white-clad doctor walked into the room, carrying a clipboard. It wasn’t the same one as last night, who had only spoken Danish and thus found it very hard to communicate with Lovino. </p><p>“<em> Hej </em>,” Lukas greeted, waving from the chair he was sequestered in. He wasn’t going to move, he wasn’t comfy per-say but his arse was lazy. “All okay?”</p><p>“Your friend is going to be fine,” the doctor smiled at the two men. “I can promise you that.”</p><p>Lovino sighed in relief and flopped back into his chair. “Great, we can get back to normal, then,” he waved a hand in Arthur’s direction. “When’s this bastard going to wake up, then?”</p><p>The doctor’s smile wavered somewhat, and then dropped when he met Lukas’s emotionless expression. “Ah, well,” he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “Not exactly, Mr Vargas.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” Lovino sprang to his feet again, immediately ready to rush to Arthur’s defence. “Is he okay? Is the bastard brain-damaged?”</p><p>Lukas shot Lovino a glare and cleared his throat. “Continue, doctor,” he said, keeping his eyes on the Italian until he was safely sat down. “I assume…”</p><p>“Mr Kirkland will be removed to a suitable rehabilitation venue,” the doctor didn’t look over at Lovino, instead directing his words to Lukas. “Most likely in his home country - although we need someone to sort the details.”</p><p>“That’s bullshit!” Lovino, thankfully, didn’t jump to his feet again, but he looked incensed. “He’s fine!”</p><p>“No, he’s not, Lovino,” Lukas said, loudly enough that the Italian could hear him. “You know he’s been heading for this for a while.”</p><p>Lovino’s eyes glinted with anger, but he didn’t pursue the issue further, instead slumping back in his chair. </p><p>“Ah - yes,” the doctor pulled a few papers from his clipboard and handed them to Lukas. “Normally I would ask Mr Kirkland to fill these out himself but I’ve been told he may not be… receptive to the idea. His manager has already given verbal approval to the plans.”</p><p>Because of course, Francis had. Francis would do anything to prevent this getting to the papers, and if he could sequester Arthur away in rehab for a few months it would make the Magical Bastards even more marketable once he came back. Even if it was for his own good, Lukas couldn’t help but feel like he was infiltrating on Arthur’s life by doing this. </p><p>“Okay,” Lukas said, after a long pause. “I’m happy to do it.”</p><p>The doctor nodded and gave the pair a cautious smile again. “You three are rather well known, aren’t you?” he asked, earning a curious eyebrow quirk from Lukas. Yes, they had a large fanbase, but not really with the over 40s. “Ah… You haven’t seen the papers this morning, have you?”</p><p>Lovino’s eyes widened, and he quickly pulled out his phone. Lukas narrowed his eyes, and got to his feet, stretching up on his toes to see out of the window and down to the ground, five stories below. </p><p>
  <em> Paparazzi? </em>
</p><p>“Oh, fuck!” Lovino exclaimed, eyes frantically scanning the little screen in front of him. “Fuck- LUKAS!”</p><p>Lukas moved around the bed to peer over Lovino’s shoulder. Oh, fuck indeed.</p><p>
  <b>DRUGS, BOOZE AND SEX: WHO ARE THE MAGICAL BASTARDS?</b>
</p><p>A scroll down the screen - the subtitle made Lukas’s heart drop into his stomach. He moved his hand to Lovino’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.</p><p>
  <em> THE TRUTH BEHIND IT ALL: THE DRUG ADDICT, THE SEX ADDICT AND THE GAY CATHOLIC </em>
</p><p>No prizes for guessing who the drug addict was - Lukas glanced over at Arthur, who was still asleep, despite all the commotion around him. Did that make him the sex addict? Lukas almost choked on his laughter on an attempt to keep it in, knowing that this article would fuck over the Italian most of all. </p><p>“They say we’re all fucking the Bad Touch!” Lovino’s voice came out as a whisper - a clear sign that he wasn’t okay. Lukas’s grip on his shoulder tightened. “Oh fuck - <em> nonno </em>.”</p><p>Lukas’s eyes scanned the text, trying to notice the name of the person who had given all this (false) information to the newspaper. But nothing - just ‘an anonymous contributor’ who had somehow got <em> photos of Mathias leaving my hotel room yesterday morning </em>. </p><p>Fuck, that Dane had a nice arse. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Welcome to the Magical Bastards</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arthur finds out where he'll be spending the next few months, whilst Lukas and Lovino deal with stupid idiots and contractual obligations.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for everyone who's been giving this story love - whether you're commenting, kudos-ing or just reading! You are all so massively appreciated and loved. </p><p>We're getting into the nitty-gritty now, relationships are being set up, music will be made and Matthew becomes a central character.</p><p>Yes, I made ANOTHER playlist for this fanfiction: this one is just for cute songs I think are worthwhile listening to whilst you read, if you're so inclined. These are the songs I listen to whilst writing this, the ones that help me personify characters and their relationships!</p><p>https://open.spotify.com/playlist/43VPJssgjmwUFXDTtA5Q9Z?si=qexRY6xuSriMso3k42MmqA</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>One month later; in Los Angeles, United States of America</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alistair Kirkwood?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur looked up from his newspaper, and nodded, making sure that his sunglasses were secure on the bridge of his nose. He didn’t much want anyone to recognise him, so his hair was brushed down in front of his face to obscure his distinctive eyebrows (which he had ultimately refused to shave off or tame in any way), a baseball cap with the name of an American football team emblazoned on the side crammed over his head. He’d taken his eldest brother’s first name for the occasion, a small ‘fuck you’ sent the way of his family and a slightly altered surname. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been almost a full month since the interview - a month since the world had gone to shit for Arthur. No more quiet existence for him, the second he’d woken up he’d been bombarded by concerned family members, new-found unwanted fame that haunted him from dawn until sunset. And papers shoved in his face telling him that he was going to rehab.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur ground his teeth at the thought, as he grabbed his shoulder bag from the floor and slipped the newspaper into it. Lukas had carefully avoided his eyes as he explained, in his calm voice, that this was an intervention on the part of he and Lovino, and Arthur’s family were in full agreement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t been given a choice in the matter. Everything had been decided whilst he was comatose - he was to be shipped off to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Los Angeles</span>
  </em>
  <span> of all places (no nice country English rehab for him, oh no - that was too obvious for the suddenly ravenous paps). And Lukas had decided it all, pen in hand and a blank expression that betrayed no forethought or regrets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Apart from the black eye where Arthur had aimed a good right-hook at him once he’d found out about the violation of his civil rights. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr Kirkwood,” the person was saying - Arthur was unaware if they were a secretary, a doctor or just an unnamed lackey. He might have been told, but his mind was far away. His hands were jittering, a sad side-effect of detox even now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first week had been the hardest. Stuck in a Danish hospital, vomiting every few hours, curled up on his side biting his lip to keep from howling in pain. Lukas had been sat there though most of it, but Arthur still refused to look the Norwegian in the eyes. He was passed little cardboard hats, methadone (in regulated amounts) and had his dignity slowly stripped away from him day by day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lovino came, too, but his bedside manner was such that he often found himself getting thrown out by hospital staff. Swears of </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking doctor bastards get your fucking hands OFF me </span>
  </em>
  <span>echoing down corridors were almost enough to make Arthur smile on the darkest days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mostly, it had been Lukas and Alistair, who had never met each other up until the moment they met over Arthur’s hospital bed. They shook hands over the Englishman’s vomit stained sheets and silently made a pact to never let this happen again. “‘E your man, Artie?” Alistair had smirked, eyeing Lukas up and down with the eye of a straight man trying to appraise the attractiveness of a fellow man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur snorted. “Like fuck he is,” his voice was scratchy from lack of use, and he’d been passed water by a still emotionless Lukas. “He’s the drummer, Alistair.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry for getting yer wee arse stuck with t’s one,” Alistair’s eyes had twinked. “Yer the ‘sex addict’ right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, yes. That was the last straw in the proverbial orange juice six-pack, on the third shelf of the fridge of life. The fucking article. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Arthur </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever </span>
  </em>
  <span>found out who was responsible for leaking his drug overdose to an </span>
  <em>
    <span>international news site</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he would have their guts for garters. He had his suspicions of course - first of all, Francis Bonnefoy, the slimy frogman, but that culprit had vehemently denied it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been too busy with </span>
  <em>
    <span>mon cher Mathieu</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” he had chuckled at the time. Arthur could have sworn that he heard a quiet </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Francis!’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>come from the very back of the hospital room then, but he hadn’t seen anyone. How strange. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr Kirkwood?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah, yes - back to the matter at hand. Arthur secured the hat on his head and looked over at his guide through his dark sunglasses. “Yes?” he said, voice still scratchy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You caught all of that, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ve</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, actually Arthur had caught a fat 0% of that, but he wasn’t about to have another mental flashback. If he was stuck here, then he was stuck here - no two ways about it. He would just have to suck up the punishment, get out of this treatment as soon as possible and get back to his previous life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Arthur didn’t bother to nod and reached out to grasp the leaflet offered to him. He glanced at it long enough to notice the name of the place he was in (something he’d refused to ask or care about up until that moment).</span>
</p><p>
  <b>BEILSCHMIDT THERAPY RETREAT</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Beilschmidt? The name vaguely rang a bell, but Arthur didn’t press the memory, instead choosing to fold up the leaflet and shove it into his hoodie pocket. Thoughts could wait for now. He needed to focus on the task at hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur and the guide were stood outside a massive wooden oak door that stretched all the way up to the high ceiling. It could have been a drawbridge in a castle, especially considering the windows embedded into the wall to let in light from the room beyond. Each window was arched, but frosted so you couldn’t peek in to see what was happening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least his new purgatory would be a little like home.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guide walked up to the door and knocked twice, the sound reverberating through the wood. Arthur instinctively moved a pace back, crossing his arms tightly over his chest to ward off the worry creeping up his spine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t want to be here. At all. This was completely against his will in every sense of the word. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No. No no no no no no no no-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come in, Feliciano,” a voice called from behind the gigantic door. Arthur’s guide turned to look at the Englishman, a small smile on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s a bit scary, but he’s nice when you get to know him,” the other man assured him before the door was pushed open. Arthur moved his sunglasses slightly down his nose so he could regard his guide without the tinted lenses in the way. Wait… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Lovino</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Arthur asked curiously, before kicking himself inwardly. The entire point of being undercover was to </span>
  <em>
    <span>not draw attention to himself</span>
  </em>
  <span> and it was inevitable that this man would know who Lovino was - especially as the resemblance was uncanny. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other man faltered in his door pushing, glancing away from Arthur for a split second, before returning his gaze with a bright, beaming smile. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Mi chiamo Feliciano</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Feliciano grinned. “Not Lovino. Sorry!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur quirked an eyebrow, but before he could make to answer the door was pushed open fully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The office was bright with sunlight, streaming in from one massive window as big as the door. Arthur flinched away from the light, momentarily blinded by the lovely summer’s day outside. Although the massive window and door were undoubtedly the most significant features of the room, it was also furnished with wall to wall bookshelves, books of all colours and golden embellished titles on the spines. In the centre of the window, facing the door, was a dark oak desk, almost scarily clean. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind the desk was a tall blonde man with slicked-back hair, folded into a stiff-backed chair. Arthur stifled a chuckle at the man’s expression - although outwardly he was calm, the Englishman could tell that he was too tall to fit behind the chair and was having significant issues because of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” the blonde man got to his feet in a slow, easy fashion, wincing as he finally unfolded himself from the chair. “Feliciano. Thank you for bringing Mr Kirkwood to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feliciano beamed at his boss, giving a jaunty one-handed wave to Arthur before retreating. The oak door slammed behind him, making Arthur jolt in surprise. Now he was locked in a room with a man, who Arthur supposed must be Beilschmidt. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That name sure was familiar…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is good to meet you,” the man spoke with stilted, slightly broken English, a heavy German accent tinting the words. “I am Ludwig Beilschmidt. Please take a seat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur’s brows knitted as he tried to place both the name and the accent, but he nodded whilst his mind whirred. “Thank you,” he said quietly, taking the chair on the opposite side of the desk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ludwig folded himself back into the chair and placed a pair of unrimmed spectacles on his nose. “I believe you know my brother,” he said, voice calm and level. Arthur could see why he was a therapist and counsellor, with a voice like that. “Gilbert Beilschimidt?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, the accent and surname clicked. Arthur tried to stop the flicker of annoyance at the reminder of Gilbert from crossing his face, but judging from the chuckle emitted by the German, he wasn’t successful. “Quite,” Ludwig continued. “May I call you Arthur?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would prefer that, considering that it’s my bloody name,” Arthur leant back in his chair. It was certainly more comfortable than Ludwig’s appeared to be, but it was no substitute for a nice bed. “May I offer my condolences on the birth of your brother?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smile crossed Ludwig’s face. Maybe Germans did have a sense of humour after all. “He was the one who recommended I take on your case,” Ludwig admitted, hand reaching for a ballpoint pen. “After he suggested this venue to Mr Bondevik, of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur didn’t react at Lukas’s name, knowing that Ludwig would be looking for this. He remained still. “Can I have a fag?” he asked flippantly, already reaching for paper and his lighter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ludwig pulled a face but nodded. “Let me open a window first,” he said, unfolding from the chair and walking over to the floor to ceiling window. The right half of the window swung outward to the garden outside of it, letting a rush of warm air into the office. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur muttered a thank you, pulling the materials out of his pocket and laying them out on Ludwig’s desk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” Ludwig continued, once he had sat down again, the window securely open. “Why are you here, Arthur?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A beat of silence. Arthur contemplated his answer, fingers stilling over the tobacco. He brought the paper to his face, licking along the sealant, attempting to prevent spillage onto the carpeted floor. “Because Lukas Bondevik is a cunt,” he decided on his answer. That adequately expressed his feelings towards his situation and where he was right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps,” Ludwig sat back in his chair too, carefully regarding Arthur as he put the cigarette between his lips and lit it with a careful two flicks of his lighter. “But why did he send you here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I fucked up,” Arthur didn’t need to overthink that answer. Cigarette dangling out of one side of his mouth, he rolled up the sleeve of his tartan dress shirt. He extended the arm to Ludwig with an almost bored expression. A large purple bruise at his elbow crook. “I didn’t hide it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ludwig said nothing for a careful moment, looking at Arthur’s arm. “How long?” he asked, again in the same calm voice. “And where, if you don’t mind me asking, Arthur?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur barked a laugh, pulling his arm away again. “Legs,” he said simply, with a shrug. He took a long drag on the cigarette. “And a year. Maybe more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was silence then, a silence that echoed through the office uncomfortably. Arthur pulled down the dress sleeve again, mind wandering. He truly wondered why Alfred had said nothing about those red track marks on his inner thighs, on that early morning. Whether it had been ignorance, or trust that it was an old issue. Or just if the American truly hadn’t cared. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you’re clean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur nodded at this, breathing the smoke from the cigarette out of his nostrils - a trick he had learnt from Francis. “Since the hospital,” he said bitterly, remembering those hours spent crying inwardly for a hit. “I’ve been taking methadone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ludwig nodded thoughtfully, making a few notes on a yellow pad. Arthur tried to make out what it said, but it was in German. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Knew I should have learnt that bastard language. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re glad you’re here, Arthur,” Ludwig’s smile was calm, but also pleased. “I really hope we can help you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arthur scoffed. “I’m past saving, Beilschmidt,” he leant back and stared at the ceiling, still-lit cigarette drooping from his jaws. “Spend your time on someone with a future.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s funny,” Ludwig responded lightly, finishing the note he was making with a click of his ballpoint pen. “That is almost exactly what my brother said, too.”</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <em>
    <span>Meanwhile; in Copenhagen, Denmark...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>If Lukas displayed his discomfort and anger at being cornered by a Danish man in a hotel stairwell, then said Danish man would be lying on his back at the foot of the stairs with a broken back and neck by now. Maybe even dead, tongue lolling sideways and eyes crossed in stupidity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A man could only wish. Instead, Lukas was forced to stand, arms crossed, with icy fury in his face and eyes. Facing the one person that he actively hated in this world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lukas-” Mathias was saying, seemingly unaware of the other blonde’s anger. “Lukas - I’m sorry, I wasn’t just there to try and sleep with you again! I promise! Not that I don’t want to - </span>
  <em>
    <span>fanden</span>
  </em>
  <span> - you were amazing, but I like you for more than just that! You’re funny and smart, and clever-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mathias,” Lukas cut the other man off with a finger to his lips. The Dane stilled, eyes wide. “You’re an idiot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?” Mathias breathed, taking a step closer to the Norwegian. “Lukas… I-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you wanted me to forgive you, that wasn’t the way to go about it,” Lukas pulled away instantaneously like Mathias’s proximity had burnt him. He looked around for a way to exit the situation, trying to keep his face expressionless. He could feel the Dane’s breath on his neck, and as Lukas tried to sidestep him, his wrist was caught. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lukas,” Mathias said again, pressing the Norwegian into the wall with two strong hands. Lukas tried to duck away from him but was unsuccessful, being completely cornered by fucking Mathias Køhler - somewhere no one would want to be. “I…” the other man’s eyes flickered down to Lukas’s lips. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, hell no</span>
  </em>
  <span>!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“OI!” thankfully Lukas was saved by the bell - if the bell was a short, angry Italian man with hands on his hips and a flyaway hair curl. Mathias sprang back, eyes wide in surprise. “BASTARD, STOP RAPING BONDEVIK!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas took his chance. He quickly slipped out of the Dane’s grasp, pausing as he did and delivering a swift kick to Mathias’s backside. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Jævla fitte</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he muttered as the kick hit its target, and Mathias doubled down on the floor in both pain and surprise. Lukas regretted everything to do with the Danish man - especially inviting him into his bed that night. But kicking him in the arse was fun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mathias looked up, hurt in his eyes, but Lukas just kicked him again, egged on by Lovino’s angry expression. This time the tip of his boot hit the other man in the ribs, gently enough that nothing broke, but hard enough to wind the Dane. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got it under control, Vargas,” Lukas said, blowing a few wayward strands of hair out of his face. He unclipped his hairpin, and tucked the flyaways aside, clearing his vision. Mathias was left on the ground, ignored by both. Despite the fact that the man was groaning rather loudly. “Appreciated, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mathias could only blink slowly as he watched Lukas and Lovino depart down the corridor, wounded pride hurting more than his bum or side. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What had he done wrong? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He must have stayed down on the floor for longer than intended because the next thing Mathias knew he was being picked up by a strong pair of arms. He turned and looked into a pair of familiar red eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you okay?” Gilbert asked - because of course, even when they were righting, Gilbert just had to be the bigger man and help Mathias after a fight. It wasn’t even fair anymore. They’d barely spoken since the hospital, yet Gil was still here being… Being </span>
  <em>
    <span>kind</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mathias scowled and dropped the other man’s gaze. “‘M fine,” he muttered under his breath, moving away from Gilbert’s grip. “‘S nothin’.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re so not awesome, Mat,” Gilbert laughed loudly, the distinctive ‘kesesesese’ noise echoing through the corridor. “If you wanted to get little Lukie to sleep with you again, that isn’t the way to go about it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, like you’re the expert in relationships,” Mathias pulled a face but didn’t make to walk away from the German. “When was the last time </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>scored?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gilbert paused, flustered by the unexpected question. His mind automatically, treacherously thought of Mattie Williams, but that was quickly pushed away. “All the time, broha!” he insisted, smirking widely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you’re supposedly mad at me,” Mathias pointed out, shaking off the shiver that unexpectedly went down his spine. He was not a superstitious man, but Mathias knew enough that a spine shiver was a signal that someone, somewhere was talking about you. “What’s up with that, </span>
  <em>
    <span>broha</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gilbert just cackled and slapped Mathias on the back in a brotherly fashion. “I’m too awesome to hold grudges!” he crowed. “And after all, you didn’t mean it, hey, Mat?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That, at least, was true. Whilst Mathias didn’t like Arthur Kirkland and probably never would, Gil was his friend. And he was clean, for Christ’s sake. Mathias could hardly criticise the man for his past, especially when Mathias’s own wasn’t the most perfect. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, he shook his head and relaxed his stance. “Mates?” he asked cheerfully, his bruised ego still stinging somewhat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Awesome </span>
  </em>
  <span>mates,” Gilbert corrected, swinging an arm around Mathias’s shoulder. “Come on broha, we’ve got a practice to get to!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What Gilbert failed to mention was his own reluctance to make it to said practice, especially when </span>
  <em>
    <span>Francis </span>
  </em>
  <span>would be there. He had never had an issue with their manager before, despite him being the same age as them, and therefore not really worthy of much respect - but now? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now </span>
  </em>
  <span>it was personal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gilbert had never been rejected before! Gilbert was the King of Awesome, people didn’t ask him out, they fell as his feet for the possible chance of a date. And Gilbert didn’t date either, he was a sexy guitarist that took people to bed and kicked them out in the mornings. Mattie would have been an oh-so-awesome exception if Gilbert had ever been given the chance to woo the Canadian. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last time Gilbert had felt this way about someone, it had backfired on him too. And it was why Gilbert now tried to stay away from anyone that swung both ways, so they couldn’t pull a Roderich and date his ex-girlfriend. Not that </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>particular rule could be well-enforced, since walking up to someone in a bar and saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hi would you like to be fucked by the awesome six metres tonight but only if you’re straight or gay because I’m irrevocably scarred by walking in on my bisexual boyfriend with my ex-girlfriend that one time</span>
  </em>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe Gilbert was just destined to be awesomely single for the rest of his life. There were worse fates, like being kicked in the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Arsch </span>
  </em>
  <span>by the man you were unawesomely obsessed with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh - nevermind. The pair pushed open the door to the hotel room they were using as an unofficial meeting point, only to be greeted by Francis all over a very dishevelled looking Matthew. Gilbert screamed inside at the sight, but the noise thankfully only came out as a squeak. Mathias looked at his bandmate in surprise for a second but cleared his throat to get the pair’s attention. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh!” Francis pulled away from Matthew swiftly but didn’t move to unpin his boyfriend from the wall. He looked over at Mathias and Gilbert with a smile on his face. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Excuse-moi, mon cher Mathieu </span>
  </em>
  <span>and I were…” a smirk now. Gilbert resisted the urge to run away from the situation. “Enjoying each other’s company.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not in front of us, thanks,” Gilbert pulled a face, before morphing it into a wide smile. “What did you want us here for anyway, Francey?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Francis finally moved away from Matthew, who breathed an audible sigh of relief. “I called all of you here for an - ah - a group meeting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have got to be fucking with me,” Lovino muttered as he entered the room, pulling a stony-faced Lukas behind him. “What do you think you’re doing, Frog?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah!” Francis exclaimed, clasping his hands together. “Just in time, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mes amis</span>
  </em>
  <span>! Come, come!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas took one look at Mathias and moved to leave the room as quickly as he had entered it, but Lovino saw the Norwegian’s move and grabbed his arm quickly. “If I’m here, so are you bastard,” the Italian muttered, yanking Lukas down to a chair. Mathias decided that the clouds outside the window looked just like the Kingdom of Denmark, and stared at them intently to try and make out the location of Copenhagen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Francis,” when Matthew spoke, he was as quiet as a mouse, and Gilbert fought the urge to squeal and run over to him to promise his protection and love for the rest of eternity. “Do you want me to leave, or-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mattie!” Gilbert winced at the sudden change in volume, courtesy of a Mr Alfred Jones, who rushed in as if fired from a cannon, Antonio sauntering along behind him. “Don’t worry, your hero bro is here! Was the frog molesting you again? Do you want me to save you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s only molesting if it’s one-sided and underage,” Matthew pointed out, one eyebrow raised at his brother’s antics. “I’m in my twenties, and it is </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>not one-sided.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis chuckled loudly, wrapping one arm around his boyfriend, with a wink in Alfred’s direction. “Your brother knows nothing of the ways of </span>
  <em>
    <span>l’amour</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he murmured sensually, lips pressing against Matthew’s neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay!” Gilbert didn’t want to watch Francis get it on at the best of times, but especially not when he was getting it on with someone far too good for that lecherous bastard. “Okay, why are we all here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seconded,” Lovino grumbled, determinedly avoiding Antonio’s looks in his direction. “Fucking bastards, putting us in a room with these </span>
  <em>
    <span>stronzos</span>
  </em>
  <span>...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas stared at his jean-clad legs, arms crossed over his chest. He said nothing, only occasionally glancing up at Mathias, who was still staring out of the window. Antonio was staring at Lovino with unbridled longing in his eyes, the expression making him look more like a kicked puppy than a world-renowned musician.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We need to talk, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mes amours</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Francis clapped his hands twice, finally moving away from Matthew. Gilbert let out a sigh he hadn’t been aware he was holding. “Lovino, Lukas, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mes chers</span>
  </em>
  <span> - you still have a contract to fulfil.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes?” Lovino answered for the pair, copying Lukas’s crossed arms. He glared over at the Frenchman, hatred punctuating every narrowed eye movement. “We’re fully aware of that, bastard - but in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re down a guitarist.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve cancelled the tour,” Lukas added, in a quieter voice. He didn’t look up. “We’re not holding any more concerts until Arthur is better. We </span>
  <em>
    <span>agreed </span>
  </em>
  <span>to that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis nodded, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oui</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but you’re due your album,” he pointed out, smirking at Lovino’s glare. “Oh, you forgot?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas bit back a snide comment and swore inwardly. Of course, Francis wasn’t going to let their contractual obligations slide, even if Arthur was dead he wouldn’t drop it. The money came first for the Frenchman. </span>
  <em>
    <span>But still</span>
  </em>
  <span>- the Norwegian finally looked up. They had the material, they just had to record it all. Some songs had already been introduced at the dates they had managed to get to. The issue remained however-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re down a guitarist,” he pointed out, standing up. “I’m not good enough to cover Arthur’s parts for the album. Lovino isn’t, either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Normally at a slight to his talent, Lovino would be yelling and flailing his arms in anger, but he just nodded. “Where do you want us to find a guitarist from, </span>
  <em>
    <span>stonzo</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” he snarled. “This is our first full-length release - we don’t want to fuck it up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have some suggestions!” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Francis has obviously been planning</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Lukas thought darkly, eyes glancing over to Mathias again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Still staring out of the window</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Idiot.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mattie plays awesome guitar!” Alfred cut in, grinning from ear to ear. Lukas turned his attention to the Canadian, tilting his head in interest at the news. The man flushed at the attention suddenly divested on him and looked at the ground. “Awww, Mattie, don’t be shy! We used to play together all the time!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have the time!” Matthew insisted, glaring at Alfred through his glasses. “I’ve… I’ve got to go back to work soon!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you said they laid you off, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mon amour</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Francis smirked deviously, laughing delightedly at Matthew’s angry glare. “Awww, don’t be like that Mathieu! It would solve </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>their issues if you stepped up!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… I…” Matthew swallowed his words and pushed his glasses up his nose again. Across the room, Gilbert squeaked at how cute the man was. “I’m out of practice!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Better than some </span>
  <em>
    <span>stronzo </span>
  </em>
  <span>we know nothing about, I suppose,” Lovino sniffed, looking Matthew up and down. “Shame you’re related to the Burger Bastard, but we can deal with that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas was vaguely aware of Alfred yelling ‘OI’ from the other side of the suite but paid him no attention. Matthew was obviously well-versed in the industry, and the label, being Francis’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>paramour</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and he was yet to prove himself to be an arsehole on the level of Alfred and Mathias. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By nature, Lukas was a careful man. He thought through every action carefully before he did it, whether it be the brand of butter he bought or the clothes he would wear each morning. Nothing was done without forethought. Everything in his life was carefully planned out and executed precisely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But in this case, he didn’t have a lot of time to think things through. If he didn’t say yes to Matthew, Francis could land them with anyone. Maybe even - Lukas shuddered inwardly - a </span>
  <em>
    <span>session musician</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he was the one to walk forward and extend his hand to the Canadian. “Congratulations,” he said dryly. “Welcome to the Magical Bastards.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Translations:<br/>mi chiamo - my name is (Italian)<br/>fanden - fuck (Danish)<br/>jævla fitte - fucking cunt (Norwegian)<br/>stronzo - arsehole (Italian)</p><p>Next chapter: Lovino confronts his nonno and we find out why Feliciano reacted like that to his brother's name (and we get some Spamano cuteness). Matthew hangs out with Lovino and Lukas as they try to find somewhere they can record in peace and quiet. And more of the fall out from the article (which I had to cut out from this chapter for the sake of length)! I cut things down so chapters are more easily readable, this chapter could easily have been three times the length!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Roma Awaits</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm sorry - I lied in the previous chapter. This is filler, set up for the next chapter, where I promise we will learn a whole lot more about Lovino. It's implied here, but... Yeah. Sorry!</p><p>I also wanted to write some SuFin, and some Berwald, so hopefully you can forgive me. I've been ill so this chapter was a bitch to write and get out, hence why it's filler and shorter than the last one. I also tried my hand at adding in some Twitter jargon/templates - let me know what you think!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Magical Bastards </b>
  <span>@themagicalbastards - 2h</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We’re excited to announce that we will be recording our next album over the coming months. </span>
  <b>@MatthewWilliams </b>
  <span>will be joining </span>
  <b>@PrinceLovino96 </b>
  <span>and </span>
  <b>@ButterMyBeer </b>
  <span>on their album whilst </span>
  <b>@AnEnglishGentleman </b>
  <span>recuperates - Get well soon.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Replies </span>
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    <em>234                                        </em>
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  <em>
    <span>Retweets </span>
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  <b>
    <em>1k </em>
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  <em>
    <span>                                     Likes </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>6.7k</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <b>The Bad Touch </b>
  <span>@badmannersbadmenbadtouch - 1h</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Replying to </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>@themagicalbastards</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>*blowing kiss emoji*</span>
</p><p>
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    <span>Replies </span>
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    <em>55                                         </em>
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  <em>
    <span>Retweets </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>7k                                       </em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>Likes </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>105k</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <b>Elizabeta Héderváry </b>
  <span>@elizanewyorktimes - 1h</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Replying to </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>@badmannersbadmenbadtouch</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>SQUEE</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Replies </span>
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    <em>3                                         </em>
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    <span>Retweets </span>
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    <em>56                                       </em>
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  <em>
    <span>Likes </span>
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    <em>105</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <span>Lovino Vargas sat in Leonardo da Vinci International Airport, praying to God that nobody would recognise him or the two blonde men sat to his right. That was not in his game plan, and he would be damned if he deviated from the plan. The plan to get his friends (well… Lukas and that weird new boy Matthew) and him safely into the Italian countrywide, that was. Not just any old fucking plan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A beep from his phone. Lovino pulled it out of his pocket in surprise, unlocking the screen with a thumb. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>Tomato Bastard</b>
  <span>: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Call me when you’ve landed safely, Lovi!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Lovino didn’t suppress the urge to roll his eyes and dropped the phone onto his lap with a muted thud. There was no way in hell that he was going to call Tomato Bastard, annoying-as-fuck, nice arse Toni now, especially not now he’d managed to escape from the cold of Denmark into the relative warmth of Roma. There was no place for annoying indie/pop/whatever bands in this zen garden of punk rock mania.</span>
</p><p><span>It had been a battle of wills to decide on where they would hole themselves up to record this next album - a battle Matthew had automatically lost by virtue of being from another continent and Francis’s plea to ‘</span><em><span>keep </span></em><span>mon</span> <span>cher</span><em><span> Mathieu close to me, please?’</span></em><span>. That had ruled out Northern America, and Lovino had shot down Lukas’s suggestion of Norway immediately - he wanted to experience a summer, goddammit! Not a slightly-warmer month that would still be full of snow and weird fish-eating bastards. So, that left Italy and put Lovino in the smug position of being the only one to understand the country’s language.</span></p><p>
  <span>Matthew gently coughed into his hand, and Lovino shot a glare at him. “What do you want?” he snarled. The Canadian blinked in surprise at Lovino’s snappy tone, obviously not yet accustomed to living and working with a southern Italian. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh-” Matthew was lost for words for a moment before he found his vocabulary again and made use of it. “Just wondered who we were waiting for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lovino scoffed, rolling his eyes. The new member had done little to endear himself to the Italian yet - that took lots of trying, maybe even years, and asking stupid questions didn’t help matters. “Doesn’t matter, bastard,” he muttered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas glanced over at Matthew and smirked at their new recruit. “He’s calling you bastard - that means he likes you,” he jested, earning a middle finger salute from Lovino. Lukas just chuckled, patting Matthew’s shoulder and pulling out his own phone to check his texts.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You have 5 missed calls from *****-******* (recognised number)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>10:15 - Do Not Pick Up (Danish Ass)</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>11:34 - Do Not Pick Up (Danish Ass)</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>12:52 - Do Not Pick Up (Danish Ass)</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>14:44 - Do Not Pick Up (Danish Ass)</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>16:23 - Do Not Pick Up (Danish Ass)</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, joy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Lukas rolled his eyes and swiped off his call app, ignoring the flashing notification that he also had several unheard voicemails. They were obviously all from the Danish Ass himself, and thus not worth his trouble. Instead, Lukas moved onto his texts, swiping down and opening the thread he was looking for.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Message to: </span>
  </em>
  <b>Lillebror</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Lukas Bondevik: </b>
  <em>
    <span>Hei, Emil. Landed safely. Looking forward to Skype calling you and Leon later.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas waited patiently for a few minutes, eyes not leaving the screen, half expecting his little brother to send a message back immediately, and that it would pop up. No such luck. It was almost midnight in Hong Kong, though, so could he be blamed?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why Emil just had to follow his boyfriend to a whole new continent, Lukas wasn’t sure. Maybe it was done to spite him? Or maybe it was just Emil growing up and needing to see the world - and wanting to do that separately from his elder brother’s job. It wasn’t that Lukas </span>
  <em>
    <span>couldn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> take Emil to wherever he wanted to be in the world with his work, it was just that Emil didn’t need to be brought into the lifestyle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, Lukas gave up, and put his phone back into his jacket pocket, returning his attention to Lovino and Matthew. The latter was scrolling through social media feeds, determinedly not looking at his new colleagues, whilst Lovino was impatiently tapping a foot on the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Italian was more anxious than impatient, not that he would ever admit that. Scared eyes darted around the people in the airport, caught between making sure they weren’t recognised and keeping an attention out for their ride. He knew Lukas could see right through the ruse, but it wasn’t the right time for that. Matthew didn’t know either of them well yet, but Lovino knew he wasn’t exactly sporting a poker face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Finalemente!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Lovino suddenly breathed out, getting to his feet and brushing non-existent dirt from his trousers. Even when he was incognito, he dressed expensively. Getting sent clothes for free meant you always had more than you knew what to do with - and a different set every day tried to make the most of his good fortune. Lukas glanced over at his bandmate but said nothing as Lovino walked over to an elderly Italian gentleman with silvery hair and deep laughter wrinkles around his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lovi!” the man beamed, throwing his arms around his grandson, as soon as he was close enough to touch. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Il mio piccolo pomodoro</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Nonno,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Lovino choked out, eyes wide at the unexpectedly warm greeting. “Uh… </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ciao</span>
  </em>
  <span>…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Awww, Lovi, you’re all red!” his grandfather pulled away, the bright smile still in place, pinching Lovino’s cheeks. “You really are a little tomato!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lovino scowled and pulled away. Especially considering recent circumstances, such a warm welcome was… Uncomfortable for him. He wasn’t a touchy-feely person at the best of times, and certainly not after one of his best friends had been hospitalised for overdosing, thrown in rehab and been replaced by a shy American (Canadian- </span>
  <em>
    <span>whatever</span>
  </em>
  <span>!) boy. Thank god they wouldn’t actually have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>tour </span>
  </em>
  <span>with Matthew-- even Francis knew that that would be asking for too much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Introduce me to your friends, Lovi!” Romulus Vargas grinned, stuffing his hands in his pockets and bounding over to the other two men with similar energy to a kangaroo hyped up on cocaine. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ciao</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas was the first to awkwardly get to his feet, stretching out a hand. “Lukas Bondevik,” he replied stiffly, flinching as Romulus gave him the standard two kiss greeting. Needless to say, Norwegians were not known for their physical content with friends or strangers. Lukas would only hug his friends when they needed it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthew, on the other hand, was more than used to the traditional European greeting through dating the French frogman. He accepted it quietly and shook the older man’s hand with a shy smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Vargas, I’m Matthew.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nonsense!” Romulus was still grinning. Lovino rolled his eyes from behind his </span>
  <em>
    <span>nonno</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s back. “Call me Romulus! Mr Vargas was my son!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah, come on bastards,” Lovino spat out, having had more than enough of his grandfather’s flamboyant greetings. “We have places to be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sì</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you must show your friends around our fair land, no?” Romulus spread his arms out wide, gesturing to the inside of the airport. “Tonight, we stay in Rome! Tomorrow, we show these boys-” a wink at the awkwardly standing foreigners here, which made Matthew blush and make Lukas even more uncomfortable, if that was possible, “-Naples, Pompeii, making our way down to Palermo within the week!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>merci</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Matthew piped up here, face flushed bright red. “We do not wish to intrude though, Mr- Romulus.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nonsense!” Evidently, that was Romulus’s favourite English word. “You won’t be intruding at all, dear boy! Us Italians are famous for our hospitality!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lovino scoffed again, crossing his arms over his chest. “Hospitality my arse,” he muttered, just loud enough for the group to overhear. “The mafia and hookers, maybe. Hospitality? No fuckin’ way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My apologies for my </span>
  <em>
    <span>nipote</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Romulus rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “He is not the friendliest of us Italians! He does not represent the best of us, I assure you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No need to apologise,” Lukas replied smoothly, nodding smoothly. “Thank you for your kind hospitality. We’ve never been to Italy before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You must be the Norwegian boy!” Romulus nodded back. “Ah, nasty business about that article - Lovino called me and told me all about it. Nasty, slanderous lies- trust me, if I could call the Mafia on those </span>
  <em>
    <span>culos</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I would!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas shot Lovino a wide-eyed look over his grandfather’s shoulder. Lovino just shrugged back, trying to convey ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll explain later just don’t blow our cover</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ in one glance. Thankfully, Lukas had the experience of these expressions from the Italian man before and was able to interpret enough to know that he probably shouldn’t question it. So, he just nodded again. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Tak</span>
  </em>
  <span>, sir,” he smiled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now!” Romulus exclaimed, slapping Lukas and Matthew on the back in one movement. “To the car!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lovino just shrugged again, taking the rear, slinging his bag over one shoulder and following his grandfather and friends out of the airport. Explanations could wait whilst </span>
  <em>
    <span>Roma </span>
  </em>
  <span>awaited.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>“Still nothing!” Mathias threw his forehead against the table, knocking it once, twice, and then one final time for good measure. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Berrrrrr</span>
  </em>
  <span>… What should I doooo?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t ask me,” Mathias’s elder, gruffer, generally less friendly and more intimidating brother Berwald muttered from the sink, where he was drying up the plates and cutlery from their dinner. “Never met the man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Timo has!” Mathias frowned, although it was more of a pout. “Surely he told you about that night when he met Lukas and his band?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Berwald sighed, a common sound for when he was dealing with his annoying younger brother. Not that the pair weren’t close, it was just that Mathias was very much too much for the quieter brother. Too loud, too boisterous, too alcoholic. And of course, Timo had insisted that Mathias come over for dinner whilst the younger was still in the city. Berwald sincerely regretted agreeing to move to Copenhagen now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” he replied curtly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly!” Mathias thumped his forehead onto the table again. “So surely Timo told you all about what he’s like! I mean- he’s quite short, I’ll give ya that, but he’s very slim… Pretty… Got a fuckin’ </span>
  <em>
    <span>lovely </span>
  </em>
  <span>ass…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Dane was stirred out of his reverie by a sharp cough and a glare from his brother. “Don’t want to know,” Berwald said, rolling his eyes. “I’m not the person you should ask about these things. Even if I did know the man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you’re my older brother!” Mathias whined, looking up from the tabletop. The world spun a little - probably due to the amount of forehead smashing he’d been doing. “You’re meant to know </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>! And you’re married, so you should be great at relationship advice!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Berwald didn’t answer that, instead inwardly wondering just how early he could throw Mathias out on his rear without getting an earful from Timo. The Finnish man was big on family dynamics, which most likely came from his lack of a family of his own growing up, and insisted that Mathias and Berwald at least attempt to get along, despite their obvious differences. Berwald had done as much as to take Timo’s surname when they got married, to distance himself from Mathias as much as he possibly could. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet the little burden was still sat at the table, being a nuisance and generally getting in the way. You just couldn’t win. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And now they’re in </span>
  <em>
    <span>Italy</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Mathias continued to whine, rocking backwards in the chair he was sequestered into. “Like- Ber, how am I meant to make him fall in love with me </span>
  <em>
    <span>noww</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For his sake, I hope he never does,” Berwald replied gruffly, just quiet enough that Mathias couldn’t hear any distinct words. Dating his baby brother would be nothing but a mistake, in his opinion. Timo probably agreed - although Timo was too nice to say anything bad about his in-laws (at least to their face). </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right!” Timo finally emerged from the depths of the house, bouncing into the kitchen with the usual spring in his step. He looked happy, and always was happy when it came down to it. Except when he was mad- those days Berwald knew to stay the hell out of his wife’s way and hide out at work or in the basement. But right now, the Finn showed no signs of anger, especially as he wandered over to plant a kiss on his husband’s cheek. “I’m ready to go! Mathias- would you like me to drop you off on my way to work?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes please,” Mathias still sounded like his dog had just been eaten, but he managed to perk up a little at the thought of a free trip back home. “Thanks, Timo!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timo blushed a little and waved a hand. “No problem Mat!” he beamed, looking around the working surface for his keys. “Hey- Ber? Seen my car keys anywhere?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Windowsill,” Berwald pointed with one finger in the right direction. Timo’s face lit up again, and he grabbed the set and stuffed them into the pocket of his work trousers. “When will you be back?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“4 am,” Timo pulled a face - although Berwald knew that the bubbly Finn loved working in a bar (especially when he got to throw particularly unruly customers out on their ear). And even though Timo worked nights and Berwald was a lawyer in the city centre, they made everything work perfectly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll wait up,” Berwald turned and put his hands on his ‘wife’s’ waist, pulling him in for a kiss. It was short, chaste and sweet, but it still earned the pair a gagging noise from their unwanted (in Berwald’s case) guest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ew, single man here guys!” Mathias waved a hand in the air, managing a self-indulgent grin as Timo gave him a half-hearted glare. “You know us bachelors, can’t stand the sight of other people happy!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timo shot Berwald a sympathetic smile, kissing him once on the nose before turning his attention to his brother-in-law. “Still single?” he asked, surprisingly in a confused voice. “I thought you were seeing Lukas Bondevik!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here we go,” Berwald muttered, as Mathias frowned again, eyes downcast. “You set off the pity train.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I tried!” Mathias pulled his bag up from the other chair, pushing some strands of blonde hair out of his eyes. “But he doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>like me </span>
  </em>
  <span>Timo!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course he does!” Timo insisted, still with his characteristic good humour. He did, however, shoot a look at Berwald over Mathias’s shoulder that said all he needed to know - </span>
  <em>
    <span>why is Mathias so obsessed with this one guy?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that Timo was about to judge too harshly, knowing that Lukas wasn’t exactly bad looking, but it was quite clearly obvious from that night in the bar that the Norwegian wasn’t interested in Mathias the same amount. At least from the behind-the-bar perspective. Maybe not from the drunken patron side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on,” Timo continued quickly, knowing that very little good was going to come from pressing Mathias into explaining exactly how Lukas had rejected him. “If we don’t leave soon I’ll be late for work!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mathias sighed heavily, but nodded and turned towards the door, face brightening as he waved goodbye to Berwald. “See ya next week, Ber!” he said cheerfully, previous sadness evidently momentarily forgotten. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Berwald just waved back silently, inwardly rolling his eyes and hoping that the week would go slowly so he could savour every blissful Mathias-free moment. Then he turned back to the dishes, and the suds coating the tips of his fingers. With a muted sigh, he picked up a tea towel and continued on with the chore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timo, on the other hand, was stuck with the boisterous younger brother for at least another fifteen minutes and was frantically trying to think of a way to pull him out of his funk. Moping Mathias was not a Mathias he wanted to be around for long, lest the Dane start crying and actually force him to miss work. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Mat?” Timo asked awkwardly, as the brother climbed into the passenger seat of the couple’s white Volkswagen Up. Mathias glanced over, eyes brimming with moisture. “Have you thought about talking to him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sigh. Timo mentally smacked himself. “Yes,” Mathias looked out the window, one arm resting on the top of the door, just next to the glass. “He won’t pick up my calls.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...ah,” Timo rubbed his forehead, turning his key in the ignition. The car started up nicely, which made the Finn grin and pat the dashboard lovingly. Even though it was a few years old, it still ran like a well-oiled machine. It was the closest thing Timo and Berwald had to a child. “Well,” he swallowed, taking his time pulling out of the driveway to give himself time to think through what he should say next. “Maybe… Maybe he’s busy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mathias didn’t answer that, and Timo risked a glance over to the passenger side. Mathias was full-on sulking now, pout and all, bottom lip quivering and eyes staring at a fixed point in the distance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could go and see him?” Timo suggested quickly, plucking the first idea from his mind. “I mean - everyone appreciates a grand gesture, right? Just… Find out where he is!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was evidently a good piece of advice in Mathias’s mind. He perked up immediately, wiping the first vestiges of tears from his eyes. “I know he’s in Italy!” the Danish man said, yanking his phone from his pocket. Timo nodded absent-mindedly, paying more attention to the road than his brother-in-law. “Just… Not where, exactly!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Twitter,” Timo said, with the air of a wise man tutoring his student - much like Professor Dumbledore and Harry Potter, although Timo would never admit that he actually much preferred the era of the Marauders to the one explored in the novels. He wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>much of a nerd, surely? “They might have said on there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perfect!” Mathias crowed, pulling up the app on his phone and scrolling down his newsfeed. “And I get updates on my timeline from them too, because they’re also Verified!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmmhmmm,” Timo hummed, risking an eye roll at the other man’s expense. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, Mathias, we get it, you’re a famous celebrity and your Twitter account is verified. It’s not because half your followers are horny teenage girls who only follow you for your cross-fit pictures, definitely not. And you didn’t have to DM the official Twitter account for weeks to get the blue tick, no - no! Not at all… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There was silence in the car for a few moments, and Timo broke it by pressing the standby button on the car radio. He smiled at the song that came on - one he recognised instantly. A well-known cover of a well-known song that Timo just </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew </span>
  </em>
  <span>had been orchestrated and decided by Arthur Kirkland. Joy Division was such an iconic English band and the way the Magical Bastards had rearranged the melody to make it even darker and more depressing (if that was possible), and adding in the heavy guitar and drums… That was a chefs kiss moment to any fan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mathias evidently recognised the song too, as he paused his tapping for a moment, and sat back in the seat. He quietly listened for a few moments, before grinning again. “Do you think they’re better than us, Timo?” Mathias asked cheekily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” there was no contest. Timo knew that- he didn’t even have to think of the answer. “Your band are American indie pansies, Mat - you know I’m not a fan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Normally Mathias would pull a face and deny The Bad Touch’s obvious Americana roots, but he was sidetracked this time. With a gasp and a punch of the air that hit the roof of the car, Mathias let out a bark of surprise and happiness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m off to Palermo, Timo!” he grinned, turning the phone to his brother-in-law. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m watching the road!” Timo rolled his eyes again, although this time more good-naturedly. “Tag me in it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I don’t think I have to,” Mathias’s smile morphed into a self-satisfied smirk, as he pressed the retweet button and chuckled as it turned green. “It seems like it’s a reply to you, Timo!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>WHAT</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The car screeched to a halt, almost hitting a red Vauxhall Corsa in the rear. Timo quickly pulled over into a side street, putting the stick in neutral before leaning over and grabbing Mathias’s phone. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god THEY NOTICED ME!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have met them, Timo!” Mathias snickered at the other man’s enthusiasm, scowling at the whack to the shoulder he received for that statement. “Ow… Meanie.”</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <b>Magical Bastards </b>
  <span>@themagicalbastards - 7h</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We’re excited to announce that we will be recording our next album over the coming months. </span>
  <b>@MatthewWilliams </b>
  <span>will be joining </span>
  <b>@PrinceLovino96 </b>
  <span>and </span>
  <b>@ButterMyBeer </b>
  <span>on their album whilst </span>
  <b>@AnEnglishGentleman </b>
  <span>recuperates - Get well soon.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Replies </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>643                                        </em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>Retweets </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>5.6k </em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>                                     Likes </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>10k</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <b>Timo #GetWellSoonArthur </b>
  <span>@bastardssuperfan1995 - 5h</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Replying to </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>@themagicalbastards</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Exciting!! Where are you all headed to?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Replies </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>1                              </em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>               Retweets </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>6                                           </em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>Likes </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>65</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Lukas Bondevik </b>
  <span>@ButterMyBeer - 1h</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Replying to </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>@bastardssuperfan1995</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Palermo, Sicily.</span>
  <em>
    <span>Replies </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>104                                         </em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>Retweets </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>500                                        </em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>Likes </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>1k </em>
  </b>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Translations:<br/>Lillebror: little brother (Norwegian)<br/>Finalemente: finally (Italian)<br/>Il mio piccolo pomodoro: my little tomato (Italian)<br/>Nipote: nephew (Italian)<br/>Tak: thank you (Norwegian)<br/>Culos: arseholes (Italian)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. A Dane's Desire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This crush is getting a little creepy now</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>First of all - I would like to say thank you. This story has almost hit 1000 hits, and the amount of comments and support I've got has been phenomenal. </p><p>I'm really sorry about the delay on this chapter, but I also can't promise that the next one will be up any sooner. I'm a busy student, due to graduate in 2021 and enter the working world, so my writing is a loved hobby that I unfortunately can't indulge in too often. But I read every comment and I see every kudos and follow and favourite, and you're all so appreciated by me. THANK YOU!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I can’t believe this </span>
  <em>
    <span>schieße</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” It was no surprise to anyone that Gilbert was fuming - steaming with anger, to the point that Alfred wouldn’t have been surprised to see steam coming out of the German man’s ears. He scooted his bum back a few inches, tucking himself into the back of the armchair, to get as far away from Gilbert as he could.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tensions between the band’s members hadn’t relaxed yet, but luckily (or unluckily, depending on how you looked at it) the main culprit of the tension wasn’t around right now to be yelled at. Or screamed at. Or generally berated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who-” Gilbert looked around at the group, red eyes narrowed and arms crossed. It was surprising how intimidating dark eyes and pale skin could be, even on a short, relatively skinny guy like Gil. Would you expect such a weird, rare combo to be that striking? It was just like pepperoni on cheese, on a pizza. Oh, pizza - the best thing about New York. Could they fly out there soon? Surely Francis could grab them a gig in the Big Apple. Danish pizza (although he could never tell Mathias this), was just not up to scratch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who,” Gilbert repeated, startling Alfred into a sadly pizza-less reality. “Who the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>let Mathias run off to fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>Italy</span>
  </em>
  <span>! Without telling any of us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” Toni smirked, coughing slightly into his fist. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Amor </span>
  </em>
  <span>strikes again, I see!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuckin’ hell Toni!” Gilbert rolled his eyes, relaxing his arms and swinging them down by his sides - one hand grabbing his phone, and the other a glass of water. “Love got nothin’ to do with it! He’s following his three-inch cock is what he’s doing!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred snickered, moving forward in his seat again, albeit cautiously. “Uh-” he cleared his throat, looking up at his albino bandmate. “Does Francis know that we’re down a Dane...?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does Francis know </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>, exactly?” Oh, speak of the devil. Alfred turned to look over his shoulder to watch as their manager walked across the room, looking far too confident and stylish as he did so. He should really ask where the guy got his hair done. Maybe his stylist could get Alfred’s little cowlick to </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally </span>
  </em>
  <span>lie flat, after years of trying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Franny!” Gilbert exploded, sending little bits of guts and blood splattering across the walls (not really, just in Alfred’s mind. Don’t question what goes on in there, it’s a product of too many video games and a dark sense of humour). “Have you fuckin’ </span>
  <em>
    <span>heard</span>
  </em>
  <span>-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Non</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” the Frenchman looked around for a spare seat, finding one by the wall and parking his peachy ass, crossing one leg over the other with a graceful sweep that ballerinas would be proud of. “Gilly, my dearest friend-” Antonio coughed again, but was ignored. “You wouldn’t keep secrets from </span>
  <em>
    <span>moi</span>
  </em>
  <span>, would you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Francis, I’m trying to tell you!” Gilbert growled, pushing a hand through his hair. “How hard is it to keep quiet for five minutes whilst I do!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My apologies,” Francis nodded, holding his hands up in a signal of gracious defeat. “Continue, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mon cher</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gilbert nodded, and cleared his throat. Then, he paused, seemingly trying to think of the right words to say on this occasion. How did someone explain a missing Danish guy, especially one with such stupid hair? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mathias is gone,” he eventually decided. “Gone, vamooshed, allons-y-ed, fucked off, tschuss-ed. Fuckin’ gone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was silence for a moment, as Francis tilted his head, and pondered the issue at hand. Alfred and Antonio shared a glance with one another. Gilbert crossed his arms again, staring stoically at his best friend and manager. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” Francis nodded, looking contemplative. “I can see how that may be a slight issue.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just a slight one,” Antonio walked across to Gilbert and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Nothing we can’t fix, Gilbert.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A </span>
  <em>
    <span>slight </span>
  </em>
  <span>issue?” Gilbert pushed a hand through his short white hair again, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath in. “Just… A </span>
  <em>
    <span>slight </span>
  </em>
  <span>fucking ISSUE? He’s gone to Italy! We’re meant to be in Germany by tomorrow morning!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing we can’t fix,” Francis nodded sagely, still sitting calmly in his chair. “Italy, you say? How do you know this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because he’s obsessed with that Norwegian dude,” Alfred smirked, pulling up his phone and looking through his Twitter feed. “It’s all Mat tweets at the moment, Lukas this and Lukas that-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which is a problem,” Gilbert sighed, closing his eyes again and sighing heavily. “Because that guy is a fucking liability. Who knows what he’ll do!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gilbert-” Alfred narrowed his eyes and tilted his head at the German man. “Is everything okay with you dude? You seem more uptight than usual!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gilbert nodded, although his body language told a very different story. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ja, </span>
  </em>
  <span>fine,” he muttered. “Don’t worry about me, Alfred, I’ll be </span>
  <em>
    <span>just. Fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Haven’t you got laid recently?” Antonio asked good-naturedly. “No need to worry friend, I have a number of an excellent hooker in Berlin, an old friend of mine. She’ll even give you a discount if you eat her out!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t need a fucking hooker, Toni,” Gilbert snarled, pushing the Spaniard’s hand off him. “I’m just feeling tired, ‘kay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Of course- </span>
  </em>
  <span>Gilbert thought miserably, risking a glance at Francis, who looked as nonplussed as ever. </span>
  <em>
    <span>-it would be so much better if the guy I was pining over </span>
  </em>
  <span>wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>in the arms of my best friend…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He sagged, allowing Antonio to wrap an arm around his shoulders. Normally Gilbert was far, far too awesome for help, but he didn’t have the strength to fight off the much stronger Spaniard this evening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred looked up from his phone, pausing his scrolling for a second. “Hey, are we doing a group hug?” he grinned, jumping to his feet and pouncing on Antonio and Gilbert. “Bad Touch forever, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gilbert scowled into Alfred’s chest, finally pushing the American away as he felt a hand coming to mess up his hair even further. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Nein</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” he crowed, jumping away from the icky affections and into a place of relative safety. “Not my hair!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alfred beamed, clearly taking credit for Gilbert’s sudden good mood. “We’re going to be okay guys!” he chorused, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. “Trust me! I’m the hero!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, shut up now,” Gilbert grumbled, trying to sort out the damage that the American had dealt to his precious locks. “Someone… Someone come up with a plan,” he said dismissively, turning away from his bandmates to pay some proper attention to his awesome hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was silence for a short while, and some scuffling noises as chairs were shifted around and sat on. But then Francis spoke up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Simple!” he said, waiting until Gilbert turned around again to continue his sentence. “We go to Italy too!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But Ger-” Gilbert started, but Antonio put up a hand to silence his bandmate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to see </span>
  <em>
    <span>mi amor </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lovi!” the Spaniard grinned across at his friend. “And Francis wants to see his Mattie-” inwardly Gilbert grimaced at the possessive. He tried his best to keep the anger and frustration he felt at Francis’s supposed </span>
  <em>
    <span>ownership </span>
  </em>
  <span>of the Canadian off his face, but Antonio clearly read him like a book. He was shot a pointed look by the Spanish man, who took a deep breath before continuing. “And why not Italy? We can reschedule!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gilbert very much did not want to reschedule his trip back to his beloved homeland, He wanted some good German beer, some Currywurst, maybe a nice bit of Sauerkraut from one of the Berlin markets, and, of course, proper, authentic, Prussian Wurst (and not the one he so desperately wanted to give Matthew). Italy had what, pasta and tomatoes? Certainly not the good, hearty meals that the German so desperately craved and wished for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Mathias was there, following his heart or his dick - that was still up for debate - and Antonio seemed so excited. Alfred less so, but his mind was up in the air most of the time, so Gilbert didn’t dwell on it for too long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh why the fuck not!” he threw his hands up in the air in defeat and exasperation. “Sicily it is then!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just until we get Mat back,” Alfred said, narrowing his eyes at Francis. “We’re not staying there just because Mattie is!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Francis’s responding smirk and ‘ohonhonhon’ told Gilbert all he needed to know, and he groaned loudly, already mentally preparing himself for the Frenchman’s horniness.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Matthew set down the guitar he’d been tinkering on with a sigh, knowing that Lukas’s and Lovino’s glances didn’t bode well for their future recording this EP. Alfred had been exaggerating - his guitar skills were good enough for some campfire tunes, but he couldn’t sing as well as Arthur could and he was out of practice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas in his own cold, detached way was being very kind to the Canadian boy, but Lovino wasn’t as good at hiding his emotions. The quiet mutters of Italian curses and frustrations were enough to tell Matthew that he wasn’t quite up to scratch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas was sat across from Matthew, his slender fingers tapping on his jeans - this time they were dark blue, and ripped artfully on the knees, exposing two milky-white legs. The Norwegian wasn’t paying attention to his bandmates, instead whistling an unfamiliar quiet tune and playing with the holes in his jeans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could see why Mathias was so obsessed with this guy. Luckily Lukas did not deem it important to follow the Dane back on Twitter, otherwise he would have seen Mathias’s outright simping, which had been constant since the two groups had met for the first time and Arthur entered rehab. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthew absent-mindedly pulled his phone out from his own, much baggier jeans, checking the app with a couple of taps. Yup, yet more weirdness from Mathias, some retweets from his brother’s account, and lots of notifications telling him that his personal was blowing up. Oh, and he was finally verified. Sweet!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the momentary rush of dopamine and adrenaline that came from the blue tick appearing next to his username was dashed as soon as he scrolled further down his home page. Because there, right in the middle of the screen of his Samsung S10, was a large selfie of Mathias.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a terrifyingly familiar area.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Mathias Bondevik &lt;3 </b>
  <span>@dreaminofcopenhagen - 1d</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hey guys! Guess where I am! First correct guess wins a signed photo ;)</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Replies </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>1k                                  </em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>Reweets </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>234                                 </em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>Likes </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>5k</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Matthew quickly closed his phone and shoved it into his pocket, feeling as if the photo and the knowledge of where the Danish man was would burn him. Instead, he picked up the guitar again to occupy himself, and to resist the urge to double check if it was he or Mathias that was certifiably insane.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthew’s head jerked up again as Lukas spoke, his cool voice cutting through the tension like a knife. He nodded, trying his best to remain calm under the pressure of Lukas’s stare and scrutiny. “Yes- yeah fine!” he managed a smile too. “Just checking the internet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmmm,” Lukas didn’t appear to be entirely convinced by this, but he didn’t press the matter. Instead, the Norwegian pulled his own phone from his pocket (which took a lot more effort - the disadvantages of skin-tight jeans now abundantly clear). “The internet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, come on,” Lovino scoffed, coming closer to the pair. His boots clicked on the wooden floor as he did, the sound echoing throughout the sparsely decorated music room. “You fucking zoomers and your phones,” he mocked, rolling his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthew leaned back in his seat, admiring the comfort that it afforded his arms and his arse. Lovino’s grandfather had done well in providing the trio with a place to work and record at such short notice, even if their studio was a spare box room on the second floor of his Palermo mansion rather than anything custom built. The Canadian had a sneaking suspicion that Romulus was involved in the Sicilian Mafia, but asking about the old man’s work was no-no number 1.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Number 2 was mentioning absolutely anything to do with the disastrous article, and to get rid of absolutely anything that had any ties to Buzzfeed whatsoever in case it mentioned the incident. Lukas had put up and shut up with barely a raised eyebrow, but in a show of uncharacteristic courage, Matthew had asked Lovino why this was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lack of an answer was all that he needed to know, really. Lovino hadn’t responded, in fact he’d ignored Matthew’s question entirely, but Lukas had glared and it looked as if the Italian might cry for half a moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthew could hear his mother chiding him for asking such a personal question despite barely knowing the guy. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Curiosity killed the cat,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>as she always said at these times, mostly when Alfred stepped over an unseen line in the dirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>But satisfaction brought it back</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” thought Matthew, looking at Lovino as he leaned against the grand piano that had been placed in the corner of the room. He would have to ask Francis when he next saw him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas, however, was not thinking of such trivial (to him) things. Instead, he could feel his blood running cold in his veins as he noticed just how many notifications he had on his various social media, especially for someone with their settings set to ‘verified-only’. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>3 missed calls from Emil, one voicemail… Lukas glanced over the rest of his updates before clicking on his voicemail, pressing the phone to his ear. He held up one finger at Lovino’s immediate rebuttal of anger, hearing the familiar click and whirr as the robotic operator on the other side patched him through to the recordings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“LUKAS!” Emil yelled, and the Norwegian flinched away from his phone in surprise at his younger brother’s excitement. That was unlike him. Emil was normally as calm and collected as his elder sibling. Despite himself, Lukas worried on his bottom lip, ignoring Lovino’s tuts at such an action. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend!” the recording of Emil continued, which caused Lukas to raise one slender eyebrow. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Boyfriend? Where was this boy getting his information from?</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Honestly, Lukas, do you tell me nothing now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emil,” Lukas mouthed at Matthew and Lovino, although both of them still seemed incredibly confused with current events. “Voicemail,” he tried again, which seemed to relax the Canadian slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you’re being completely idiotic-” there was a rustle from the other end of the line, and Emil’s subsequent giggle made Lukas glare at a spot on the wall. “Stop it, Leon! Anyway-” Emil seemed to adjust himself, and Lukas did the same, crossing his legs up onto the chair as he listened and waited. “Have you seen Mathias’s tweets about you? They’re so cute! And the photo-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas had heard enough. With a click, he turned off the recording, and set his phone down to gaze at Matthew and Lovino emotionlessly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you know about Mathias?” he asked, looking from the Canadian to the Italian, not blinking all the while. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Know what about the </span>
  <em>
    <span>stronzo</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Lovino scoffed, perching on the arm of Matthew’s chair. “I haven’t seen anything of him since we got here!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas nodded, but then turned to Matthew, who squirmed under the Norwegian’s gaze. “Uh…” the Canadian struggled to find words under the coolness of his glare, but finally managed to swallow. “Um… I know… I know a bit-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This seemed to be enough to assuage Lukas’s question, who nodded again and looked back down at his phone. Despite himself, he picked it up again and flicked open Twitter, his eyes widening somewhat at the sheer amount of people that had been tweeting and retweeting him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t take long for him to see the offending picture, and the tweet that accompanied it. The spiky hair, the annoying grin and the sea-blue eyes. Lukas’s stomach lurched slightly as he saw the photo, which he passed off as motion-sickness. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not a crush, not a crush, not a crush</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But once Lukas’s preoccupation with Mathias Køhler’s face had passed, he concentrated on the background. Where the photo had been taken, and the amount of guesses that had been tweeted underneath the original.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Italy?</b>
</p><p>
  <b>You’re not in Sicily, are you????? OHMYGODMYHEART</b>
</p><p>
  <b>HE’S GONE TO FIND LUKAS SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Palermo! I went on holiday near there!</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Idk but it’s somewhere near the sea</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Sicily!!!! To talk to Lukas!!</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If Lukas had been a sentimental man, he would have melted at the realisation that Mathias was here, in Sicily, presumably to follow his crush. But instead he felt only anger. Frustration and anger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excuse me,” he said coldly, rising to his feet and gripping his phone tightly in one hand. “I need to go sort something out.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As you might be able to tell, I've never written Spain before, and therefore I don't put a lot of Spamano in. I did realise just how big a task it is putting all of these ships in and giving them equal time, so for now I'm focusing on DenNor (because they're my faves), and then once their little arc is over I'll move onto PruCan, and then USUK/Spamano.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Fountains in the Square</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Drama and fluff, oh my!</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Potential trigger warnings: there are thoughts of self harm and suicide in this chapter. If you'd like to avoid them but still read some of the chapter, skip to the line break (the first bit of the chapter is okay too, but you can miss it out and the rest will still make sense!). It's just one paragraph.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Arthur was surprised when his phone rang on that Monday morning, right as he was sipping a morning cup of tea and looking out onto the horizon. It was slightly misty, and the sun hadn't quite risen from beyond the sea yet, but he'd made a point of rising at 6am, on the dot, every single morning. Hoping to get out early for good behaviour, or to piss off his care worker by asking for a cuppa as soon as he woke up. </p><p>His fingers twitched, aching for that familiar click of a kettle, the whirr and buzz as it started up, and the sound of boiling water. Teabag in a mug, then a spoon clanked in beside it. Water, than milk- it <em>had </em>to be in this order. He wasn't sure if the orderlies did it that way around, and knowing them they probably microwaved the water, being American. <em>Bloody yanks</em> he grumbled to himself, sipping his tea, and reaching for the bedside phone.,</p><p>He paused, his hand resting over the receiver momentarily, debating whether it was worth him picking up the handset. He didn't want to talk to Lukas, and the idea of even entertaining a call from any of his siblings was ridiculous. Lovino just didn't call, so it certainly wasn't him. <em>His mother</em>? Arthur's heart twinged painfully, thinking of his mother, all alone in her cottage in the countryside. Alone since two years previous, when his father passed of a heart attack at the age of 54. Far too young, and since then Arthur had had the feeling that his time was ticking down to an inevitable, grisly end.</p><p>The phone stopped ringing, and before Arthur could overthink, he grabbed it quickly and put it to his ear. "Yes?" he growled, taking another sip of tea to cool his nerves. "What is it?"</p><p>"Nice to speak to you too, Kirkland."</p><p>Arthur raised an eyebrow, and set his mug down onto the bedside table. "What a surprise," he said dryly, although as he said that, he supposed it wasn't such a surprise after all. "Beilschmidt."</p><p>Gilbert barked a laugh down the phone, and Arthur winced at the grating sound. He had never been a fan of the harsh German tone, and combined with Gilbert's complete lack of subtlety it was a recipe for a big headache. Not the person Arthur most wanted to talk to at half 6 in the morning. Although it would probably be closer to midnight where Gilbert was right now, so maybe he could be forgiven. <em>Maybe</em>.</p><p>"I'm just checking in!" he said cheerfully, making Arthur roll his eyes and turn to stare out of the window again. "Luddy said you were getting on well!"</p><p>"Isn't that a breach of patient confidentiality?" Arthur snapped back, taking a seat on the edge of his bed. "I thought Lukas was my primary contact," as he mentioned the Norwegian's name, Arthur felt a flash of anger rise from within him. That bastard, locking him away in <em>America </em>of all places, hiding him away from the world so he didn't have to cope with his best friend anymore. The ultimate betrayal. He didn't even remember if Lukas showed any emotion whatsoever in that cold, bleak hotel room, not whilst he held the little cardboard hats or sat quietly reading whilst Arthur stared at the ceiling. But he quickly pushed those feelings away, grimacing as he drank the last drop of tea. "So why are you calling?" he continued, cutting off Gilbert quickly, before the German man could respond.</p><p>"Like I said," Gilbert's voice softened (if that was possible) and Arthur could hear the other man move something out of the way. "Just wanted to see how you were doing."</p><p>Arthur examined his nails idly. "I'm doing okay," he said, finding that the best compromise between the absolute truth and an all-out fib. "It's too warm here."</p><p>Gilbert laughed again, and Arthur frowned at the sound. <em>Was he mocking me</em>?</p><p>"Yes, it is," the German agreed, and Arthur relaxed his tight stance somewhat, raising an eyebrow in surprise at the response. "I don't know why Luddy decided to set up shop there - it's <em>realllllllyyy </em>far away from home, for both him and Feli."</p><p>Ah, yes, the small Italian that looked just like Lovino. "Are they twins?" Arthur asked bluntly, wishing that he had a cigarette in his hands right now. Telephone conversations worked better with one. "Feliciano seemed surprised that I knew of Lovino."</p><p>Gilbert sighed. "Yes, they are," there was a lull in conversation, and Arthur could hear some background noise bleed through as it did. He seemed to be in a place with lots of people - a far cry from Arthur's silent, isolated bedroom slash prison. "I..." he paused again, and the Brit's eye twitched in irritation. "I don't think-"</p><p>"Spit it out Beilschmidt," Arthur sighed, his shoulders tightening again. </p><p>"They haven't seen each other in a while," Gilbert supplied. "But you should ask Vargas that, not me."</p><p>"If he ever contacts me," Arthur grumbled, which earnt him another laugh from the end of the line. </p><p>"Hell will freeze over first," the German chuckled. "Anyway! I've got to go, I'm sure we'll see you soon-"</p><p>There was a jostling from the other side, and Arthur grimaced again, feeling his headache slowly return. "Arrgh! Gerrof me!" Gilbert mumbled, and Arthur could hear a triumphant cackling, before the line was occupied by someone else. </p><p>"Miss ya Artie!" Alfred crowed down the phone. "It isn't the same without you here!"</p><p>Arthur's face immediately flushed up at the American's voice. "Well I don't miss you!" he snarled, feeling the heat in his face and trying not to let it go anywhere else. "I love not having to hear your annoying voice every day!"</p><p>Alfred laughed, and the sound made Arthur need to cross his legs over, as he remembered the way the man's eyes would light up as he giggled, and his stupid hair, and his crooked smile-</p><p>"Goodbye!" Arthur snapped, slamming the phone back down onto the receiver before the other man could reply to his insult and risk distracting him further. He slammed the mug down onto the table with his other hand, wincing as a little of the bottom chipped off and fell onto the carpeted floor. </p><p>"Is everything okay in there Alistair?" he heard his orderly call out from the hall, where she had been stationed to keep an eye on the man whilst he drank his tea. That was the thing about this place - he couldn't really get any peace and quiet. It was just go, go go, and even the mornings that he managed to keep quiet were punctuated by the terror that he might harm himself if he was left alone for even half a second. </p><p>"Fine, Claire!" he called back, stooping over to retrieve the piece of broken crockery from the floor. He idly turned it around in his hands, looking at the shape and angle of the corners, wondering whether the point would be enough to pierce his skin and carve along a vein, leaving his blood to drain out, onto the carpet and seep down into the floorboards below it. He imagined his body, empty and sallow, lying there, eyes starring glassily at the ceiling. It didn't frighten him as much as it should.</p><p>When Arthur looked out of the window again, the sun was rising above the glistening ocean, casting the sky into shades of pink and purple, blue along the corners with the clouds tinging the scene in their white fluffiness. He dropped the chip into the mug, and put his hands down on his lap, focusing on the beauty of the sky, and the new day that was dawning. The corners of Arthur's mouth twitched, threatening to rise into a smile, as he allowed himself to think of the bright, brilliant blue, and how much it resembled Alfred's sparkling eyes.</p>
<hr/><p>It was a mercy that Lukas hadn't leapt over the table and throttled the Dane with his messily arranged tie. </p><p>The Norwegian glowered darkly and turned his attention back to his coffee, sipping deeply and closing his eyes as the dark, bitter taste burst over his tongue. Italian coffee didn't have a patch on his home country's, but it was strong, and black, and he needed <em>something </em>right now. Staring into the depths of an Americano was better than the alternative, which was staring into Mathias Køhler's eyes. </p><p>"So!" the Dane broke the silence, and Lukas's head snapped up again, glaring right at the man who had dared speak. Mathias shivered, although he brushed the sensation off, grinning crookedly at the other man. "Why are you here, Lukas?"</p><p>"I should ask you the same thing," Lukas replied, looking back down into his coffee again. The grounds were spinning where Lukas had stirred a sugar cube into the depths, and their movement was almost hypnotic as they slowed, then sped up as the Norwegian sloshed the coffee around inside the mug. "What are you doing here?"</p><p>He had left Lovino and Matthew at Romulus's house, with two scared expressions and an overwhelming sense that a Dane was about to get slaughtered. Lukas felt his phone buzz in his pocket, presumably with a phone call from one of his bandmates. He ignored it.</p><p>"Looking for you," Mathias said simply, taking a sip of his own drink - a milkier coffee, that Lukas had shuddered at when he first saw it. Too much milk, too much froth. Only black coffee hit the spot for him. "You should be more careful with what you put on the internet!"</p><p>"Well, I didn't expect some psycho to come and follow me here," Lukas glared, moving his gaze from his coffee to a spot on the wall behind Mathias, so he seemed a little less antisocial. Looking at this spot, the Dane was out of focus, but he could still see the spiky, annoying hair from his peripherals. Despite himself, he let his mind wander, unguarded, and remembered when that hair had been mussed from Lukas running his hands through it, where he'd pulled on it as Mathias sucked his cock, and where he'd yanked as he cried out Mathias's name as he thrust, pushing Lukas against the headboard of the bed with every thrust. <em>Okay, that's enough, Bondevik.</em></p><p>Mathias smirked, as if he saw right into Lukas's thoughts and memories. Lukas stared fixatedly at the wall as he sipped his coffee again, focusing on bringing his thoughts back to his surroundings, the here and now rather than the ill-chosen past. Maybe they were right, and he was a sex addict - he was an addict enough to make such a stupid mistake as to sleep with Mathias Køhler. </p><p>"I'm not a psycho!" and there was the voice. That put a stop to any thoughts Lukas had of repeating his mistake. He'd managed to shut Mathias up with kisses and tongues the first time, but that was hardly appropriate now, unless he was to get down under the tablecloth and unbutton the Danish man's trousers. </p><p>"What are you, then?" Lukas asked with disinterest, still staring at the wall. "A crazed fan? Do you want an autograph? Or do you want me to sign your cock?"</p><p>Mathias's eyes twinkled, and Lukas pulled a face. "I didn't know you wanted to get close to my cock that much, Bondevik," he smirked.</p><p>That was the last straw. Lukas reached over the table and grabbed the ends of Mathias's dangling tie (was that what passed for fashion these days?), twisting them around and pulling the Dane across the table until he was a hair's breadth from Lukas's face. Immediately, his face reddened and his breathing shallowed. "Stop. It." Lukas said slowly, looking right into Mathias's eyes, feeling a hint of pleasure as he saw only terror there now. "I do not want to be anywhere near you. You or your crusty dick."</p><p>After another couple of seconds of premium strangling time, Lukas released the man's tie from his grasp, allowing him to gasp for air and slump back in his chair. He took a moment to get his breath back, but then he looked up, eyes glinting again. "So that's what you like," he purred, taking Lukas aback. "You can choke me anytime darlin'."</p><p>Lukas went bright red, and masked his loss of response with another big gulp of coffee. <em>You remember what he said about Arthur</em>, he chided himself, trying to ignore his growing... interest in the Dane. <em>You shouldn't be feeling this way! He's a horrible, arrogant, narcissistic prick. </em>But his friendship with Arthur might be ruined by now- what harm could it do...?</p><p>Before Lukas could do anything stupid, like act on his thoughts, he was interrupted by a loud giggling. He started, setting his cup down and looking outside the window to his left. <em>Oh shi-</em></p><p>"Quick!" Mathias exclaimed, grabbing Lukas's arm. Before Lukas could register the touch, he was being pulled under the table with a sharp yank. His head whacked the side of the table as he went underneath it, clutching his forehead as he looked up again, centimetres from Mathias's face. </p><p>"What?" Lukas hissed, rubbing his head and examining his fingers for any blood. "<em>What. Was. That?</em>"</p><p>"Crazed fans," Mathias chuckled, putting his hand to Lukas's head. "Damn, Lukie, you're burning up! Sure you're okay?"</p><p>"<em>Don't call me Lukie</em>," Lukas growled, slapping the Dane's hand away (although that wasn't to say that he didn't like the sensation of his fingers on his skin). "And I know that- but why the <em>table</em>?"</p><p>Mathias looked around the small, enclosed space and shrugged, pulling his leg fully through the tablecloth and tucking his knees up to his chin. "For fun?" he suggested weakly, but sagged at Lukas's glare. "I just didn't want them interrupting our date!"</p><p>"This is not a date," Lukas blinked, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. There was barely any space between him and his adversary, and Mathias was taking up the majority of the limited room. Lukas was backed up against the bottom of the window pane, which allowed him to glance upwards, twitching the tablecloth out of the way. Sure enough, the fangirls were still there, looking delighted to have caught their 'faves' in a compromised position. "We're under a table, in an Italian cafe. That's not a good first date."</p><p>"This bit isn't the date, silly!" Mathias said brightly, moving slightly closer to Lukas as he did. "This is- uh, an interlude."</p><p>"<em>None </em>of it is a date," Lukas snapped. "We only came here because you insisted on buying me coffee-"</p><p>"Buying you coffee!" Mathias pointed out. "That's a date thing."</p><p>Lukas closed his eyes, until he realised that doing that just made the sensation of Mathias's breath on his face even more notable. <em>At least the Dane had brushed his teeth that morning, it seemed</em>. The Norwegian opened them again, only to see Mathias pressed right up against him, their breaths intermingling. Despite his best efforts, and his constant inner monologue reminding himself of what Mathias had done, what he had said to his best friend and adoptive sibling - Lukas's breath hitched as the Dane got closer, and closer.</p><p>Their lips met, and Lukas's eyes fluttered shut again. He pulled back instinctively, reminding himself about the Arthur situation, but Mathias was insistent, with strong hands that shot out to pin Lukas against the window. He was trapped. And he didn't mind.</p><p>He kept the kiss chaste, ignoring Mathias's attempts to part his lips, and felt his mind spin as he did. He hadn't felt this electric in years, since his first kiss with Berwald (before that relationship crumbled to nothingness, as Lukas's were often wont to do). Mathias was a pig, he had been an utter cock and had no reason to be in Italy at all, but his lips were soft, and Lukas couldn't help but wrap his arms around his shoulders and press back with need.</p><p>Lukas eventually managed to pull away enough to catch his breath, meeting Mathias's heated gaze with a cooler one. He didn't know what he was doing, but he knew that it was almost certainly <em>not </em>a good idea. And he had to stop it.</p><p>"No," he said, as Mathias moved in to kiss him again. The Dane pouted, but Lukas shook his head. "No, Køhler."</p><p>Mathias did pull away far enough for Lukas to glance up above them again, noticing that the fangirls appeared to have gone. "But-" the Dane started. Lukas held up a hand to cut him off.</p><p>"I can't forgive you," Lukas said coldly, ignoring the way his lips were still burning from the kiss. </p><p>"Forgive me for what?"</p><p>Lukas's anger flared, and he reached out to slap the Dane across the face. "You're an ignorant ass," he spat, crawling out from under the table, ignoring the other diners. "And I want nothing to do with you."</p><p>"If this is about that druggie Kirkland-"</p><p>Lukas clenched his fists, turning around to see Mathias getting up himself, a strange expression on his face. "That <em>druggie</em>," Lukas breathed out, trying to gather himself. "Is my <em>best friend</em>."</p><p>"Do you think he feels the same way about you now you've locked him up?" Mathias sat down on his seat again, looking disturbingly unperturbed. "Come off it, Lukas."</p><p>Lukas grabbed his coat, which he'd slung over the back of his chair when he'd arrived, pulling it on over his jacket. It wasn't particularly cold, but he had the habit of bringing one wherever he went, coming from the coldness of Scandinavia. That and people tended to recognise him less when he was wrapped up like a burrito. He fiddled with his nose ring absent-mindedly, looking at Mathias with cold, emotionless eyes. "Fuck you," he said eventually, striding past the Dane and 'accidentally' pushing him into the wall as he did. </p><p>Mathias didn't respond, instead staring into his now cold coffee and cursing himself inwardly for his ability to constantly put a foot in his mouth. And for the scene he'd caused with Lukas, which he just knew would be emblazoned across all the music tabloids by the next day. "FUCK!" he yelled, slamming his hand down onto the table. He had been so close, so close to some kind of relationship with the sexy Norwegian, but now it would be even harder.</p><p>Lukas was walking across the square in front of the cafe now, his coat blowing behind him in the wind. Mathias watched him go, his heart aching, and pushing down the urge to run after him. There was nothing else for it. He would just have to ask Berwald for relationship advice. </p><p>Lukas had stopped in the centre of the square now, by the fountain, waylaid by someone or something. Mathias looked on in surprise as he embraced the newcomer, the latter of whom towered above the Norwegian man. He couldn't catch a good glimpse of the new man's face, but Mathias frowned, taking another sip of his coffee. <em>They looked strangely familiar...</em> he thought.</p><p>After some gestures, and a little discourse between the two, the new person turned around, glancing over in the direction of the cafe. Mathias's brow furrowed. He'd explicitly told Tino to not tell Berwald where he was, for obvious reasons. So why was his brother now stood in Sicily looking dead at him? </p><p>Then the penny dropped. Their hug, Berwald's old boyfriend from before university (<em>'n'bdy imp'rt'ant</em>' Mathias remembered Berwald saying, after he'd asked who the mystery boy was). The way they reacted to each other, like old friends, but still wary, as if they had history behind them that still hadn't been fully addressed.</p><p>Mathias got to his feet, and pulled his jacket tighter around him. He dropped a few euro on the table by way of a tip, and left the cafe, ignoring Lukas's stricken expression as he did. "When were you going to tell me?" he snarled, jabbing a finger into Berwald's chest. "Have you been laughing behind my back all this time?"</p><p>"I d'dn't realise it was the same Lukas-" Berwald said quietly, in his usual stoic way. "S'r'sl'y, Mathias- I promise-"</p><p>Lukas was looking from one brother to the other, and his eyes widened. "Oh, you are fucking <em>kidding me</em>. Ber, you should have told me who your brother was!"</p><p>"Ber?" Mathias laughed, although it was so strained that he almost ended up in a coughing fit. "Ber? You call <em>him </em>Ber? Only me and Tino call him that!"</p><p>"R'ght," Berwald said, quickly stepping in between the two boys, turning to his brother with a glower on his face. "Mathias, w're g'ng to talk ab'ut this soon, but not now."</p><p>"No, we're going to talk about it now!" Mathias growled, glaring at his brother. "Ber- you know how I feel about Lukas, and you didn't tell me?"</p><p>"I'm not doing this," Lukas quietly muttered, moving away from Berwald. "Oh no, I am <em>not </em>doing this, <em>faen</em> no."</p><p>A small crowd was gathering, and people were beginning to take photos of the trio as they recognised the voices and faces of Lukas and Mathias. The fangirls from earlier had their phones out, recording the whole exchange, and Lukas swore, gesturing rudely in their direction. "I'm going," he said, making his way away from the grappling brothers and preoccupying himself with his nose ring again, and then swivelling his industrial as he pushed through the crowd, ignoring the calls of 'Lukas! Lukas!'. "Fuck off everyone, nothing to see here!" he called, pulling the hood of his coat over his head and sticking two fingers up at a man who pushed a camera into his face. </p><p>Behind him, Mathias threw the first punch, and Berwald pushed his half brother backwards into the fountain. When the Dane surfaced, the Swede was nowhere to be seen, and he was being photographed and recorded as he swore and complained, trying to get to his feet and slipping backward again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Oh Mathias, you've really messed up this time.<br/>The USUK in this chapter is dedicated to ThatTrash, who comments on all of my chapters and helps me remember that it's not just me that loves this story!</p><p>Thank you for helping me reach 1000 hits, a happy new year to all of you! Let 2021 be much better than this shitshow.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please bookmark/kudos/comment, whatever you fancy doing!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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